El Diablo Mapache:



Mapache. Raccoon. Bastard. Thief. They all mean the same thing.

I don't blame raccoons for living off the bountiful refuse of humans. We put it there, they eat it. Seems pretty fair.

I will rant a bit, but must admit that the events I am about to convey were precipitated only by my own laziness, nothing else.

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Last night, around 3am, I heard a weird crunching noise outside on my porch railing. It was definitely an animal skittering around. I got up, turned on the porch light, and there he was: el Diablo Mapache, that devil raccoon. Eating my apple. I had left it on the railing earlier while cleaning up, so it's my fault. I left him a tempting little treat, and damned if he didn't love it.

Okay, fine. Until I remembered that I had left the garbage sack on the downstairs porch, and had intended to take it to the dumpster. Shit.

I put on a sweatshirt and headed down the stairs. My dread was justified: a full garbage load, strewn across an area of about ten square feet. Banana peels. A broken Tabasco bottle. Coffee grounds. Paper towels (used, of course). Days worth of garbage from our staff kitchen, all laid out for me to pick up in the middle of the night with my bare hands. Hey, what else was there to do?

So I did. And I damned sure put the bag INSIDE until the morning.

Once back in bed, I heard something fall to the porch. Mapache had come back, and knocked my JetBoil off the railing. At least it wasn't something breakable (though why I'd leave something fragile on the railing, I'm not sure). He got away with nothing on that last attempt.

Go eat my apple, el Diable Mapache, and enjoy. It had a big bruise on it anyway, you little motherfucker.

Note to self: garbage doesn't go on the porch. Ever.