I was sixteen, played on our football team, the “Fighting Angels”, liked to hit and be hit. I was very strong, had a fifty-three Mercury which I’d start by pushing down our gravel road as fast as I could run, jump in, drop it in first, pop the clutch and drive to school. In those days tires and batteries were second-hand and some of the gas was stolen. I was bold, proud, arrogant, and cocky.

It was fall and evening, middle of the Willamette Valley, after football practice. Our garage was littered with tools and car parts. Working on the Mercury was my avocation. I was on th back porch for some reason and heard a noise in the garage. My first thought was someone was messing with my stuff. I stole into the doorway to look. Didn’t see anyone, but noticed a movement down low in the far corner; I thought it must be a dog or cat and I moved across the room to get a closer look. It turrned around and looked at me and the masked face (the first close-up look I’d ever had) was unmistakenly a raccoon.

She or he was cute, friendly looking. As it innocently looked about for way to get past me and escape, the idea formed in my head that here was a chance for a fine pet! We had some old kitchen cabinets with doors my dad had moved in for storage. The raccoon was very near one of these open cabinets doors. I spread my arms — linebacker fashion — got low, and began my back-and-forth herding movements to get my raccoon to duck into the cabinet, then I’d close the door, and make my plans for captivity and training of my cute, lovable pet.

As my semi-circle closed and my plan seemed certain, the raccoon suddenly screamed a blood curdling high pitched howl and came at me up on his hind legs, surprisingly high, with nothing visible but tooth and claw and hate. There was absolutely no doubt its intent was to kill me. I back-peddled in a panic as fast as possible, and ended up flat on my back in a tangle of rakes and shovels; banged and bruised and bit and scratched. I lay quietly for a few moments with my heart pounding, so glad the violence had ended, sure the raccoon was gone but worried about his return anyway. I had a turd in my pants.

My mom took me to the doctor for rabies. I’d been bitten twice and had several scratches in places that didn’t seem to make sense to me or the doctor. When I told him the story he decided I didn’t need rabies treatment and told me I was very lucky to have escaped more serious injuries from such an encounter with a cornered, wild, and quite capable fighter. I didn’t tell him about the turd.

I became a better football player. Size makes very little difference. That raccoon weighed something of twenty-five pounds. I weighed one hundred fifty pounds. Bold, arrogant, bigger, proud, cocky doesn’t amount to much in a struggle between animals. It’s what’s in your heart that counts. I like raccoons, they got heart.