THE MAN WHO CRIED RACCOON I’ve stirred up the entire neighborhood where I live. It all started one recent Friday night when I set out on my nightly two-mile walk down our quiet little street. Early in my journey, I encountered a small animal figure to my left quietly resting on the edge of the road. I was within a foot of him when my shining flashlight met up with his face. I recognized him immediately. It was Ricky Raccoon- in the flesh. For a few moments, Ricky and I engaged in a staring contest as each anticipated the other turning tail and running. Finally, he launched a Jurassic Park-like hiss my direction to indicate that he was not enjoying my company. I peered into those Lone Ranger- masked eyes and clearly sensed them saying, "Hey, Big Shot, I may be all cute and cuddly in those cartoons and Disney movies, but if you’ve watched National Geographic lately, you know I am fiesty, mean, and bad to the bone. Speaking of bones, I’m about to take a hunk out of the one holding your left leg intact." I decided to move on and leave Ricky in his fantasy world and continue my walk. But a few minutes later, he was blocking my path in the middle of the road. The showdown at the O.K. Corral was no more dramatic as we glared intently at each other. I slowly and casually slipped to Ricky’s right and headed home to retrieve my trash can and a shovel. But when I returned, the section of my brain that secretes better judgment prevailed just in time to remind me that this situation was better left to Animal Control. They arrived thirty minutes later and as you may have guessed, Ricky Raccoon was nowhere to be found. But that didn’t stop Mr. Animal Chaser from shining his flashlight up and down the road, magnetically drawing several of my neighbors out of their houses into their front yards to investigate. He kept pointing my direction. I could tell the neighbors were slightly agitated by the commotion. I wanted to walk down the road and explain the situation, but Mr. Animal Chaser had forbidden me from accompanying him on his mission. "You’ve probably done enough for tonight," he chided. Meanwhile, I wondered if the neighbors were blaming it all on "that crazy baseball coach that writes those silly columns in the paper." The next day, everyone in the neighborhood I talked to seemed to forgive me for the incident and I went to bed that night feeling much better about my social status on our road. But when I started on my walk the following night, I encountered some dissension. As I passed one of the neighbor’s houses, the resident cat was lying at the end of his master’s driveway near the mailbox. I noticed that the garage door normally left a few inches up was completely closed, no doubt to keep raccoons out. "Thanks, a lot, Shakespeare," muttered the cat with his eyes. "Why don’t you write in the paper about how I normally come and go in and out of the garage at night. But thanks to you, I’ll be spending the night out here where your buddy Ricky can attack, mangle, and eat me if he wishes." Guilt-ridden, I blurted, "I’m sorry, I was just trying to protect the neighborhood." He glared back at me and said, "Yeah, well next time, how ‘bout thinking about the rest of us before dialing 9-1-1 every time a cat hacks up a fur ball." He was right. I had behaved like a nuclear over-reactor. But I’ve learned my lesson. So Ricky, if you’re out there, come on back. You’re safe in my neighborhood. Just beware of the cats. They’re mad at both of us.