Last night I was sitting at my computer minding my own beeswax, when I heard a horse trollop across our roof. Back and forth, to and fro, hither and yon galloped the horse.
Reasoning took over and I realized that it would be highly unlikely that a horse actually made it up to our roof, much less was able to keep its balance while running back and forth.
So, I assumed it must be a burglar. Not a very smart burglar, but a burglar. And it just took him a while to notice that we didn’t have a chimney for him to shimmy down. But still, he took a good deal of time making sure there was no entrance into our house from the roof, as referenced by the aforementioned running back and forth.
It’s not a large roof, and as the ruckus continued, I began to think that perhaps it was a raccoon on the roof. A really well maintained raccoon that rarely missed a meal.
Finally I’d had enough, and wanted to verify exactly what was on the roof. I went in search of the industrial sized flash light. Both industrial sized flash lights were completely void of battery power. Which is awesome, since we’re well into the hurricane season. I settled on the smaller inferior emergency flashlight. I hobbled down the hall in the dark towards the front door.
From Fiddledaddy’s office I hear a booming voice, “Where do YOU think you’re going?” Just like when I was 14 and my dad caught me attempting to sneak out of the house.
“I’m going out to see what’s on the roof?”
“Seriously?” He refers to my leg brace, “You’re going outside in the dark to face who knows what, hobbling around in THAT?”
I begin to reassess my plan. What if the raccoon should suddenly jump off of the roof on top of me. It’s not like I could out run it. Or fight it off.
“Okay. You go,” I challenged him.
“I’m not going out there.”
“Fine.” And I laid the flashlight down where he could find it. Because I knew curiosity would get the best of him eventually.
A few minutes later, after more scurrying around on the roof by the freakishly large raccoon, Fiddledaddy exits his office. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Clutching the flash light, he opens the back door and disappears into the darkness.
After a few moments I hear a commentary. “It’s a raccoon all right. With glowing, devil eyes. He’s staring at me.”
Then I hear something hit the roof. My husband had begun pelting the hapless raccoon with rocks, balls, and other debris in hopes of frightening him off of our house. I’m sure if the hula hoop wasn’t still lodged in the maple tree, the raccoon would have also heard the whooosh of that worthy weapon sail by his pointy ears.
The pelting fails. And as a bonus, our rain gutters are now stopped up with all manner of back yard fare.
Then my husband does what any sane and college educated man would do. He begins barking at the raccoon. Not a wimpy dog bark. But more like what a rottweiler would sound like. A mad rottweiler. And not mad as in angry. But mad as in INSANE.
I threaten to close the back door and call the police.
My husband rationalizes, “oh please, everyone knows raccoons are afraid of dogs.”
I countered, “Well, I’m pretty sure this raccoon is smarter than most, and maybe HE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A DOG AND A CRAZY MAN BARKING AT HIM.”
After all the other dogs in the neighborhood start barking back at him, Fiddledaddy finally gives up and comes in.
On the bright side, I didn’t hear any more roof top shenanigans.
But I’m pretty sure that I did hear a snicker.