Last night I was home alone and sat down at my computer to do some work at about 9:00 p.m. Suddenly there was an awful racket right outside the window next to me, and my heart raced. My first thought was that someone was trying to break into the house. Then I remembered I was on the second floor, and I couldn't see why someone would choose the second floor for a break-in.
It took a minute, but I finally recognized the problem: The raccoons were back. The raccoons that keep tearing apart the roof of our porch. The raccoons that make my husband's life miserable. The raccoons that are brazen in their destructiveness. The raccoons we hate.
When I say that they tear up our roof, I mean that literally. They rip off shingles, break them into pieces, toss them around, and leave huge holes. To what end? We have no idea. The first time I looked out and saw their handiwork, my immediate thought was that a bomb had landed on the roof in our absence. It's that bad.
Last night I wanted to protect our house, so I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it out the window. I could see nothing, but the racket continued. I threw on a robe and ran outside, shining the light onto the roof. Again, I could see nothing, but I knew my theory was right when chunks of shingles came drifting down. I ran back upstairs and pounded on the window and wall. The racket continued. Twenty minutes later, their mysterious roof-ripping urges apparently satisfied, they finally must have ambled on, as the sound finally stopped.
My husband came home later to a pile of shingles on the ground. The motion detector light he had installed on the roof had not saved the day. The raccoons evidently just huddled in the shadow beside it.
He was not happy.
The raccoons, I fear, were.