The Raccoon

The sun was already setting as I hurried my horse down the steep road

to the Central Don Park in North Toronto. In the short time it took to go

down the hill, I was transported from the busy city streets to a tranquil

country setting where there was no trace of the city.

Reaching the valley floor, the road led over a small bridge that

crossed the Don River and then on to the Metropolitan Toronto Police

Mounted Unit Headquarters. It consisted of barns and stables and two

houses that once made up the farm of a private estate. Two men stood at the

entrance of the police stable. One was my Sergeant and the other was the

Superintendent of the Park. They were having a heated conversation and

only looked up when my horse’s metal shoes left the soft turf and hit the

cobblestone in front of the building. The Sergeant pulled his pipe out and

grunted, “Good, you’re here. Put your horse away. We’ve got a job for you.”

By the time I had unsaddled my horse, fed and watered him and made my

way back to the waiting men, the sun had sunk further behind the rim of the

valley, leaving that glorious red that only city pollution can produce.

Visibility was minimal.

Between puffs on his pipe, the Sergeant laid out my assignment.

Apparently the Park’s Superintendent, who lived in a cottage just out of

sight of where we stood, had noticed a raccoon high in one of the stately

elms that shaded his house. It seemed that the raccoon was acting strangely

aggressive and vicious, unusual for these semi-tame park animals. There

had been a rabies scare recently and there was no sense taking any chances.

“Take your pistol over there and humanely destroy that animal,” came the

directive. “And here’s a feed bag to bring him back in. Be quick about it

because it’s getting dark.” The streetlights had just come on as the two men

turned their backs on me and continued their conversation.

I felt the weight of my holster to make sure that my trusty, if rusty, 32

calibre Colt was at my side, and then proceeded toward the crime scene. I

had had to check my gun because I hadn’t had much occasion to use it and

frankly, wasn’t very good with it. As my fingers ran through my

ammunition pouch, I was relieved to find several extra bullets in there.

Thank God I had replaced them after wasting so many shots while trying to

bag a pheasant during a particularly boring afternoon patrol in Mount

Pleasant Cemetery a month or so earlier. I don’t know what had possessed

me. I don’t like hunting or killing creatures and was relieved when I had

come to my senses before I did hit the pheasant. Now here I was again, this

time being sent as executioner of a poor distressed animal. I hoped that the

raccoon had moved on to another part of the park, but as I approached the

base of the tree, I could hear him hissing and snarling with that particular

rattle that is peculiar to raccoons. He was still there. There was enough

light from the nearby yard lamp to make out his furry shape and bright eyes.

His white gnashing teeth were also visible, but worst of all, I could detect a

cascade of white foam drooling down over his lower jaw, a sure sign of

distemper or rabies. “Well, there’s nothing for it, he’s just going to have to

go,” I said to myself. I drew my pistol and assumed the two handed stance I

had been taught at the Police College. One quick, accurate, humane shot

should do it. With my arms stretched full length, I sighted along the barrel

and decided to put a round between his eyes and end the thing quickly. Who

was I kidding? When we took firearms training, I was the worst in the class.

I am convinced that the only way that I passed target practice was because

some of the shots from the other cadets training with me strayed onto

respectable spots on my target. I had the bad habit of wincing and closing

my eyes in anticipation of the bang—sort of a ‘now you see it, now you

don’t’ technique that was hard to overcome. Hopefully this little bugger was

close enough that I might be able to do the deed swiftly and successfully.

I resumed my firing stance, cocked my revolver and let fly in his

general direction. My first shot was well planned because it trimmed off a

large leafy branch about three feet above his head. This, of course, allowed

more light onto the scene and made my target more visible. “Now you’re

for it,” I thought as I fired my second shot and was pleased to see that it

struck the huge tree about two feet to his right. It startled the now really

pissed off raccoon into turning and facing me full on, presenting a much

better target area. I emptied all six chambers of my gun in this fashion

without really approaching his immediate vicinity. I was also making quite a

lot of noise, but I reloaded sheepishly, thankful again for the extra bullets in

my pouch.

Again I assumed the position, ready to restart the barrage. As I

squeezed the trigger, the gun sounded a dull ‘pop’ and I could actually see

the bullet leave the end of the barrel and arch to the ground about six feet in

front of me. It was a dud, and as I looked up into the tree I could tell that the

raccoon was losing all respect for me. In fact, he was climbing down the

trunk with his whole body shaking in a maddened tremor. He was much

closer now, so I fired off three shots in rapid succession. He was suddenly

very still as he clung to the tree and I breathed a sigh of relief. I blew the

smoke off the end of my pistol and put it in my holster. I grabbed the bag in

anticipation of his fall from the tree, but as I was straightening up I heard his

mad snarling resume. I had totally missed yet again and he had only been

playing possum, or raccoon as the case may be, and now he was coming for

me. My second to last shot went wild, but as he was about to bite the barrel

of my gun, I got off the headshot that I had originally intended. He departed

the world in a quick, almost painless fashion, and as I stuffed him in the bag

and looked at my watch, I realized that I had been at least half an hour

bagging my little friend.

It was dark as I walked the short distance back to the stable where

my Sergeant and the Superintendent waited. The Sergeant looked from the

Super to me and, slowly removing his pipe from his mouth, asked, “Did that

raccoon have a gun too?”

Sunnybrook Park