When a Christmas visitor is a raccoon

We all have our childhood Christmas memories. I think of dad reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas and the nativity story from our massive family Bible. My wife always recalls gathering with her dozens of cousins.My children will always remember when our two dogs murdered a raccoon on the back deck before sunrise.She wasn’t the hounds’ first kill. She wasn’t their last raccoon. She was, though, the most memorable. I know the raccoon was a “she,” not because I invaded her privacy, but because she invaded mine. This raccoon had repeatedly entered my home, along with the whole family. (Getty Images) Watch the video if you don’t believe me. My dear bride, upon our moving onto Goat Hill, set up a panopticon: Every door into our home has an internet-connected camera pointed at it. This includes our basement sliding door and dog door.At 10:41 p.m. one November night, our raccoon friend entered the rec room through the dog door. She sniffed around the air hockey table and climbed up the sectional sofa while her two tykes dutifully wobbled behind her. What they did and where they went after they left the camera’s view, I’m not sure, but the evidence suggests they began coming up to the main floor, where our two hounds, Scout and Valentine, were resting in their crates.If you have met Scout and Valentine, you know they are the sweetest pups on Earth. Both are the perfect size for dogs — about 60 pounds. They will cuddle with you. They will sit at your feet. They will greet you as though you are their best friend — unless you are a nonhuman mammal. Then they will try to kill you.Crated, but aware of these intruders, the hounds raised hell and woke us up. We never saw the raccoons in the house, but my wife, Katie, quickly pulled up the video.If you broke into a building and encountered caged beasts thrice your weight, ready to kill you, you would avoid that site in the future. This particular raccoon saw things differently. Our home was warm on those cool evenings. There were surely granola-bar crumbs, goldfish crackers, and splatters of root beer to enjoy. So this momma raccoon decided she would move in. Every night, she tried our sliding door (we started securing the dog door nightly). Soon, she started trying our front door. When we left the garage door open one night, she moved into the rafters. We tried to make the experience as unpleasant for her as possible, harassing her with a leaf blower and even toy rifles that shot plastic pellets.We tried to convey to her: Keep your distance from our home, or things will get worse.I shelled out $60 on Amazon for a trap before thinking through what I would do with a caged raccoon. State law prohibited transporting a trapped raccoon off my property. With deportation off the table, execution was the only option. But I wouldn’t drown it. I could shoot it, though I wasn’t sure if being within 1,000 feet of a school would make that a felony. I decided to fashion a spear out of two metal poles I own. How would this go? I wasn’t sure. I had never speared a caged mammal to death, but I have read the Iliad.Scout saved me from this terrible possibility. I suppose it was her gift to me.On our first Christmas morning on Goat Hill, Scout and Valentine, upon release from their crates, made for the upstairs deck. This doesn’t have access to the yard, but what the heck, I thought. Let’s go out onto the deck and take in the beauty of Christmas morning. The dogs weren’t interested in the Christmas star, though.Have you ever looked at the part of your grill that catches the dripping fat from your burgers and steaks? You may think it’s gross. To a postpartum raccoon female, though, it’s a gourmet dish.Sometimes I imagine the mindset of this little trash panda, thinking she had hit the jackpot, enjoying the rendered and congealed lipids from some deceased cows and pigs, when suddenly the jaws of a 12-year-old part-boxer/part-pitbull clenches on her neck and yanks her out of her Christmas feast and onto the deck.BAD NEIGHBORS MAKE MORE FENCES To protect the sensibilities of our more delicate readers, I will not describe what I witnessed next. The children who had gone to bed with images of sugar plums woke up to my loud efforts to dissuade the dogs. (Valentine, the younger dog, played what one could charitably call a “supporting role” in this operation.)My yelling didn’t deter Scout, but it did wake up the children and probably some neighbors. The whole affair was over in seconds. I ushered the dogs and children inside, hit “brew” on the Keurig, and “play” on the Christmas playlist. Disposing of the carcass could wait until after presents. Timothy P. Carney is the senior political columnist at the Washington Examiner and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.