Fifteen raccoons is a lot of raccoons. Honestly, one raccoon is too many. They’re crazy animals, and they’re too smart to eat garbage. But they do eat garbage. I’ve heard one raccoon can eat three full trash cans in one sitting. The entire can; plastic and all. Raccoons are crazy. The only thing crazier than a raccoon is fifteen raccoons, and I should know, trust me. Fifteen raccoons is too many raccoons.

My life changed after I met Ronald and Reginald. It’s been about a year since the meeting, but I haven’t stopped interacting with them. It turns out that they were the leaders of two of the three groups that cover the area surrounding my house. I live a bit off the beaten path with plenty of forest surrounding me, so I’ve ended up treating them as my neighbors. Consequently they’ve done the same for me. Neither group has any reserve for asking for things they ‘need’. Usually it involves a salad dressing or condiment; especially thousand island dressing. I haven’t been able to figure out what they use it for, but they go crazy for the stuff. Sometimes they even tamper with my grocery list by adding “Thousand Island Dressing in the trolley good sir” to my paper on the fridge. It’s a small price to pay for the company. They’ve even been able to teach me a thing or two over the last year.

I’ve been counting every time I see a group of raccoons, and Ronald and Reginald were right. No matter where I am it’s always one, two, three, four, or five raccoons. But never more than five raccoons per group. They were right about the area groupings as well. Whenever I went into town I paid attention to the raccoons that run that particular area. I was able to narrow them down to a group of four and two groups of five, but there were still never more than fifteen in town, or anywhere I went, at any time. I was even able to confirm with some groups after I talked with them. Once they realized I was in ‘the club’ each group was happy to make conversation, but I had to use a trick Ronald and Reginald taught me to earn their trust.

Ronald and Reginald gave me this bit of advice over the winter: They told me it was an insider secret, but that they trusted me at this point and felt I should know it. They said “Since you do us so many favors ole’ boy, we’ll tell you a secret. If you ever come by another group of crazy coons, you should tip your hat to them. Then they’ll know you’re one of us.”

That was it. That was all it took. Boy did it work, too. Since that day I’ve tipped my hat to plenty of those classy rodents. Every time I tip my hat they reply in their own ways. Some nod to me, some bow, and some place their hands together as if they were praying. I even had one group all stand on their hind legs and shout “Jolly good!!” at the top of their lungs.

Over time I developed a rapport with all three groups in the area around my home. One group was led by Ronald, one group was led by Reginald, and one group was led by Randy. I’m a fan of Ronald and Reginald. They’ve always treated me with respect, and I’ve spent plenty of time with both of their groups. Randy, on the other hand, is a cold hearted bastard. We treat each other with respect and sometimes even get along, but trust me when I say I’d throw that little bandit off a cliff if I could muster the courage.

Regardless of my disgust of Randy, I grew close to all three groups. We became like a family. An interspecies family of sorts. Since it was raccoon law that they couldn’t be in groups of more than five they made sure not to be in the same area for too long. They all rotated among three even territories on a set schedule. I ended up liking the system because it gave me a chance to spend time with each group for about a week before the next rotated in. Over time each group had their traditions when they were in my area.

One of my favorite traditions is the transition period between Ronald and Reginald’s group weeks. It happens on Saturday night every 3 weeks, while Ronald’s group is cycling out of my area and Reginald’s group is cycling in. Both of the groups refer to the night as the “Whore night”. I tried for months to explain what that meant, but it was to no avail. They came up with the name because of their love for s’mores. Except they can’t seem to wrap their mind around the name, and adamantly call them “some whores”.

On one particular whore night I was preparing for their arrival and heard the classic knock. Ronald and Reginald’s groups are strong believers in equality. So much so that all 10 of them make sure to knock on the door at the same time. As fast as they can.

When I open the door I look down to 10 raccoons shouting “SOME WHORES SOME WHORES” while they rush through and around my legs to get inside my house. Ronald and Reginald stay at the door to hand me the supplies they brought. Ronald hands me a very torn open bag of half moldy green marshmallows and Reginald hands me a sealed box of graham crackers. The bottom half of the box was completely wet. I’ve come to terms with the fact that raccoons don’t understand expiration dates. Or how human digestion works. Or how smells work.

Ronald says “Take good care of these chap, we spent all day finding them just for tonight.” I’ve learned to keep a small trash can on top of my counter where I place the food they give me. They’re respectful of my space and they don’t get on my counters, so I just replace them with edible versions of what they bring.

All 10 of the raccoons settle into my living room. 2 jump on my recliner, 1 pulls the lever sending the legs out sending 1 of them flying across the room. 2 others start fighting with my fireplace skewers. The other two are pulling items from my small living room trash can under the side table, remarking at the value of what I was throwing away (it was candy wrappers). Ronald and Reginald just layed on the couch and perused the tv guide. They’ll spend hours just hitting the up and down arrows and making random comments (even though they can’t read).

“Would you look at this Ronald, they’re showing this blimey thing again?”

“Season 57 I believe. When will they ever stop?”

“Oh I love this movie, but it’s almost over.”

“Will they ever show something good?”

“I’m paying for all these?”

“Oh well.”

I used to think they were making fun of me, but over time I realized they actually just think that’s what you do when you’re watching TV. The only thing they really like to watch is anything about American history. For whatever reason they believe all of American history is raccoon centric. They’ll spend time telling me about how the famous Lord Buxton of New Trashington was actually responsible for evacuating the last troops from Saigon at the end of the Vietnam war. Ronald claims they’re distant cousins. Or one of their favorite stories is about the Vice Secretariat of the raccoon oval office (they call it the “Royal Bin”) who was the one who uncovered Watergate.

After they each stuffed themselves with a few s’mores, all of them talking about home much they loved my whores, I asked Ronald and Reginald about the Raccoon Laws. The fire in my fireplace was dying down. I hadn’t pushed much on the topic in the last year, but I decided it was a good time.

“Ronald, Reginald, how is it that all 10 of you can come here and be in a group. Doesn’t that break the ‘No more than 5’ rule?

“Oh!” Ronald leans up on the couch. Reginald is fairly s’more intoxicated, so he continues to lay there. I’m not sure why but s’more’s affect them like alcohol.

“Well my boy, it’s a question of time. A short, day or night meeting is fine for a group of more than 5, but still less than 15. It’s not, well, a group. More of a gathering of gents.”

Reginald hiccups and pulls himself up, continuing the thought.

“So right, so right”

Reginald falls back down, instantly falling asleep.

“So, that’s why you guys never stay the night?”

“Absolutely. Correct. As long as we aren’t in a gathering overnight we aren’t considered a group. At least, that’s how my father explained it to me.”

“I see. So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happens if the rules are broken?”

“I have no idea chap. No idea. And I don’t care to find out.”

Ronald slowly leans back and smiles.

“Can you spare me one more whore?”

I walk over to the fire from my chair and make one more s’more. While Ronald slowly eats it I notice all 9 of the other raccoons are dead asleep; strewn about the living room like I was an avid pelt collector. I decided to sit between Ronald and Reginald on the couch, lean my head back, and rest for a moment while Ronald finished his last whore.

I was woken by a loud thunder crack, louder than I’d ever heard since living in the area. It was so loud that all 10 of my visitors woke up, and it seemed to roll for miles. Ronald and Reginald looked to each other, sobering up in an instant, both stated “We must get going. Thank you for the glorious whores my boy”.

I escorted all of them out of my house.

“Have a good night gentlemen.”

“Night!”

“G’night!”

“Tallyho oldie!”

They all waved and turned to walk away. Except for Ronald and Reginald, who were looking straight up.

“Beautiful night isn’t it Ronald?”

“Yes, yes it is. Not a cloud in sight.”

“Hm.”

They both turned and walked away without waving.

I locked my door, sauntered to bed, and layed down. It was 2:01 am.

Randy is one mean son of a bitch. I’d never guess that a raccoon could be so evil. They always look so cute and plump; munching on garbage and whatnot. But not Randy. I do like Randy, though. As odd as it may sound, I like that raccoon. He’s evil, conniving, and all around despicable but there’s just something about him I have to respect. I think it has to do with his conviction to the craft. He embraces evil with open arms. I’ll give you an example.

It was the middle of summer, rain had fallen heavy the day before, and the weather was nice. I was walking through the woods for some exercise one Saturday evening like I often do and I spotted Randy’s little furry ass walking around. I could tell he was looking for something by the way he was nudging under leaves and debris with his nose; sniffing anything in his reach. He seemed concerned while he begrudgingly whispered under his breath. Of course, since I’m an idiot, I thought “here’s my chance to lend him a helping hand so we can become friends”. So I branch off the trail in his direction to see what’s going on. As I get closer I start to hear what he’s saying.

“Where is it, where is it? Where is that blasted thing?”

I crouch next to him and offer a hand.

“What are you looking for Randy?”

“Cold blimey, if only I knew! The rest of the group told me to come out here and find a brown rope! A brown rope! In this brown dirt, covered by brown leaves! Bollocks. I guess my group is picking on me again. And to think I’m supposed to be their leader.”

I place my hand on his back.

“Well let me help. We’ll cover more ground as a team.”

So we searched.

I was so excited. I figured this was our chance to bond, and then all three of the groups could have little outings together every now and then. I really clung to this ideal because every passing minute drug on longer and longer. I was on my hands and knees searching the forest floor. Every so often I would look back at Randy to see his progress, but he would just be sitting on his butt kicking his legs in the air. Most of the time he would catch my eye and suddenly begin working again and avoid eye contact. I took it as embarrassment about the whole situation and continued to search.

And I continued to search.

An hour later we finally had a stroke of luck. I say luck, but I don’t really mean it. It was certainly luck for Randy, but it was far from luck for me.

“Oy! Trash ogre!”.

I didn’t really think much of what Randy said at first. I chalked it up to his frustration at the situation. Plus I couldn’t really understand the insult in the moment. Come to find out it’s actually a nicer nickname than most of the names his group gives me, but I don’t take it personally. They’re raccoons.

Randy continued. “I think I found the bloody rope! I can’t seem to pull it out of the ground. Give it a try, ogre boy.”

Now, I’ll say that I’m typically a pretty perceptive guy. At that point I just wanted to find out what was so important about the rope, and I guess that clouded my judgment. I just never thought a group of five raccoons could dig an eight foot hole, lay a trap door above, and plant a rope as a trip switch.

I thought wrong.

As soon as I reached down to try pulling the rope the ground fell out from under me. Like an airplane hatch being ripped open, the trap door cracked and I was at the bottom of the hole before I realized what had happened.

“Ahahahaha! The blokes were right! They said you’d fall right in!”

I had to sit for a second before things fell in place in my mind. I looked around at the smooth walls from the rain and how well this hell hole was made. As I inspected the trap I replied.

“Ha ha, very funny Randy. Good joke. Now get me out.”

Randy was gone.

You may not believe me, but this was only the beginning. I assumed Randy was getting some help so I sat there at first. I walk in the woods multiple times a week so I didn’t bring my phone that day, so contact was out of the question. With the heavy rain the day before, the walls were thick with mud, and I wanted to avoid getting dirty. After about 20 minutes, and no Randy in earshot, I decided to try lifting myself up. But those raccoons really wanted me stuck down there. After many failed attempts, sliding down the wall with every mud grab, I just waited for his return. I waited alone in that hole for another hour before I heard Randy’s group coming to the hole. One way you can tell Randy’s group apart from other groups is the way they laugh. Whenever they laugh they all slap their stomachs repeatedly. It doesn’t matter if they’re laying, sitting, or walking. They’ll laugh together and slap their stomachs so hard that it sounds like a drum line performance. Soon after I heard the pitter patter of feet, obnoxious laughing of five raccoons, and the slapping of raccoon bellies, I knew they were back.

All five of Randy's crew stuck their bandit heads over the edge.

“Allo devil donger! Nice hole!”

“You raccoons better get me out of here!”

“Or what?” You know you won’t do anything! You’re just like president Nixon; always making false statements to scare rodents like us.”

“Would you shut up about Nixon and get me out of here!?”

Another raccoon answered that question.

“What are we supposed to do about it? We’re raccoons, and you’re fat.”

For the record I’m not actually fat.

“Why would you set this trap if you knew you couldn’t get me out!”

All five of the raccoons scuttled next to each other and began whispering. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but I overheard bits and pieces.

“Well are we still doing that thing?”

“… We can’t get help”

“No choice.”

“Let’s shit on him I guess”

I thought I misheard that last part. Turns out I didn’t.