Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Where the Wild Things Are

Two weeks ago, my physios allowed me to start swimming. One of theories about why my hip isn't working right is that my brain got tired of my old hip whining and complaining and shut down a connection with it. Now, I need to reboot the hardware and hopefully a dose of "paddling around and letting your leg be swished about by water" would be just the medicine I needed. (Any medicine where a side-effect is a tan is ok by me). Will reactivating my hardware cause my cyborg hip to shoot lasers and force me to destroy Tokyo? Time will tell. I was just glad that my parents have a pool in their backyard so I can swim in my undies, since it still hurts to have anything elastic pressing against my hip and Lord knows I am already exciting enough old men when I go to physiotherapy (this is another story).

I have not yet started shooting lasers from my hip. If I had, I would be better equipped to deal with the raccoon situation plaguing my backyard. These raccoons haven't gotten the whole "we're nocturnal creatures" memo and they're pissed that I'm doing rehab in the place they wash their food. Every time I get into the pool, I hear a rustling in the trees and 5 little raccoons come down towards me in a sort of menacing triangle formation, looking like greasers in "Westside Story" and chattering at me. You expect them to start snapping their fingers and slicking their fur back with pocket combs.

When they get to the edge of the grass by the pool, they stand there giving me shit. Now, my beloved cat Mika is far away in Illinois and haven't had an outlet for my particular brand of crazy that allows me to carry on a five-minute conversation with an animal and believe that we are actually communicating. (In my defense, she is a very verbal cat). So one day I decide that I'm not going to take these cocky little buggers critiquing my swimming technique.
"This is my yard," I tell them.
The raccoons remind me that, in fact, my parents own the yard and with an MFA in Creative Writing there's no fucking way I will ever afford even a 500-foot condo in the Greater Vancouver area unless I marry rich.
"Get out of here," I say. "I'm bigger than you. Why are you not sleeping?"
Chattering all the while, the mama raccoon strides past the grass towards me, intent on reminding me that while they are indeed smaller than me (I'm over six-feet tall. There are species of grizzly bear smaller than me) they have claws.

Happily, the raccoon did not hop into the water for a showdown. Perhaps this is what the physiotherapists mean by "reconnecting my brain." Nothing gives your brain a jolt of energy like a wild creature coming full-speed ahead towards you. I'd be walking on the water like Jesus.

And since all good blogs need pictures, here's a picture of the raccoons trying to break into our house.


  1. Glad to see you're keeping your spirits up, and best of luck on the recovery. I want to hear the story about the old men at physiotherapy.

  2. Me, too! Maybe you can pry some useful information out of the old men in regards to combating anti-ass (since most older dudes suffer from this problem as well). Keep up the good work. Maybe you could prevent those raccoons from washing their food in your pool by threatening to pee in it. Sort of mark your territory; that usually works in the animal kingdom, right? But maybe raccoons are not so picky when it comes to food and hygiene...

  3. Ask and ye shall receive. I'm sure the old guys would be chock-full of helpful anti-ass solutions, but I worry that those solutions might require them to cop a feel to really get a good sense of the problem :)