The raccoons in my backyard are pissed. For some reason, they don't like that added dash of Arley (better than MSG!) in their pool fondue pot, though they don't seem to mind a hefty dose of chlorine with each meal. They're also not exactly sympathetic about my need to not have bits of their food floating around as I work on my doggy-paddle.
Round 1 of the turf war, however, goes to the raccoons. They have brought their A-game. A few nights ago, the raccoons left me a little message. Now that I don't need my crutches anymore, I leave one outside so that I don't fill my cane with mold and rust by using it to get in and out of the pool. My mom came outside to find my crutch laying cross-wise by the pool steps, as if barring my entrance. They'd managed to take it from leaning against the side of the house to being horizontal along the stairs. The message: you may be bigger than me, but after the sun goes down it's a potluck and no one on the guest list is wearing a bathing suit (though, actually, neither am). It's the raccoon equivalent of a horse's head at the end of the bed.
The raccoons are lucky I'm busy with the whole finding a job/moving to Illinois/trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with my entire life business because I have a lot of pent-up frustration and I don't mind chasing those little bastards. You think you're tough now, raccoons, but wait until six-foot two-inches of Arley is coming towards you in full zombie-walking mode, cane swinging wildly, arms making windmills in order to propel her left leg forward. It's on, furry b*tches. It's on.