Winter Moon

trees--the once-luminous trees--at the foot of the meadow.

The woods and fields were heavily populated with wildlife. The

frequent appearance of squirrels, rabbits, foxes, possums, deer,

horned sheep, and other animals was one of the charms of such a deeply

rural life.

Raccoons, perhaps the most adventurous and interesting of all the

creatures in the neighborhood, were highly intelligent and rated higher

still on any scale of cuteness. However, their intelligence and

aggressive scavenging made them a nuisance, and the dexterity of their

almost hand-like paws facilitated their mischief. In the days when

horses had been kept in the stables, before Stanley Quartermass died,

raccoons--although primarily carnivores--had been endlessly inventive

in the raids they launched on apples and other equestrian supplies.

Now, as then, trash cans had to be fitted with raccoon-proof lids,

though these masked bandits still made an occasional assault on the

containers, as if they'd been in their dens, brooding about the

situation for weeks, and had devised a new technique they wanted to try

out.

The specimen in the front yard was an adult, sleek and fat, with a

shiny coat that was somewhat thinner than the thick fur of winter. It

sat on its hindquarters, forepaws against its chest, head held high,

watching Eduardo. Though raccoons were communal and usually roamed in

pairs or groups, no others were visible either in the front yard or

along the edge of the meadow.

They were also nocturnal. They were rarely seen in the open in broad

daylight.

With no horses in the stables and the trash cans well secured, Eduardo

had long ago stopped chasing raccoons away--unless they got onto the

roof at night. Engaged in raucous play or mouse chasing across the top

of the house, they could make sleeping impossible.

He moved to the head of the porch steps, taking advantage of this

uncommon opportunity to study one of the critters in bright sunlight at

such close range.

The raccoon moved its head to follow him.

Nature had cursed the rascals with exceptionally beautiful fur, doing

them the tragic disservice of making them valuable to the human

species, which was ceaselessly engaged in a narcissistic search for

materials with which to bedeck and ornament itself. This one had a

particularly bushy tail, ringed with black, glossy and glorious.

"What're you doing out and about on a sunny afternoon?" Eduardo

asked.

The animal's anthracite-black eyes regarded him with almost palpable

curiosity.

"Must be having an identity crisis, think you're a squirrel or

something."

With a flurry of paws, the raccoon busily combed its facial fur for

maybe half a minute, then froze again and regarded Eduardo intently.

Wild animals--even species as aggressive as raccoons--seldom made such

direct eye contact as this fellow. They usually tracked people

furtively, with peripheral vision or quick glances. Some said this

reluctance to meet a direct gaze for more than a few seconds was an

acknowledgment of human superiority, the animal's way of humbling

itself as a commoner might do before a king, while others said it

indicated that animals--innocent creatures of God--saw in men's eyes

the stain of sin and were ashamed for humanity. Eduardo had his own

theory: animals recognized that people were the most vicious and

unrelenting beasts of all, violent and unpredictable, and avoided

direct eye contact out of fear and prudence.

Except for this raccoon. It seemed to have no fear whatsoever, to feel

no humility in the presence of a human being.

"At least not this particular sorry old human being, huh?"

The raccoon just watched him.

Finally the coon was less compelling than his thirst, and Eduardo went

inside to get another beer. The hinge springs sang when he pulled open

the screen door-- which he'd hung for the season only two weeks

before--and again when he eased it shut behind him.

He expected the strange sound to startle the coon and send it scurrying

away, but when he looked back through the screen, he saw the critter

had come a couple , of feet closer to the porch steps and more directly

in line with the door, keeping him in sight.

"Funny little bugger," he said.

He walked to the kitchen, at the end of the hall, and, first thing,

looked at the clock above the double ovens because he wasn't wearing a

watch. Twenty past three.

He had a pleasing buzz on, and he was in the mood to sustain it all the

way to bedtime. However, he didn't want to get downright sloppy. He

decided to have dinner an hour early, at six instead of seven, get some

food on his stomach.

He might take a book to bed and turn in early as well.

This waiting for something to happen was getting on his nerves.

He took another Corona from the refrigerator. It had a twist-off cap,

but he had a touch of arthritis in his hands. The bottle opener was on

the cutting board by the sink.

As he popped the cap off the bottle, he happened to glance out the

window above the sink--and saw the raccoon in the backyard. It was

twelve or fourteen feet from the rear porch. Sitting on its