Most of Us Have Been a Raccoon in Winter
A few years back, near dusk in late January, I saw something
moving on our back deck, outside of our sliding glass door, and I realized it was
a raccoon. She was a very thin female, with teats that suggested she’d recently
given birth and was nursing babies. I knelt on my side of the door, and she
slowly came up to me. Her eyes were so desperate. She was so hungry.
We live in a town with suburbs, and in winter, there is
nothing for the raccoons to eat. On my computer, I looked up, “What is there for
raccoons to eat in winter in the Pacific Northwest?” Every article gave the same
answer, “Nothing. They normally lose a third of their body weight.”
I grew up on a farm, with all the rules and regs (made for
good reasons) about never feeding wildlife, but she was desperate. I got a bowl
and filled it full of dry cat food. I put it out, and then I got her a bowl of
water. She ate all the food and drank all the water (the ground was frozen
outside). After this, she came every night, and we fed her every night. J.C.
and I named her “Little Mama” because she was small and because we knew she had
babies somewhere.
This went on for a month, and then of course, the inevitable
happened, and one evening when she came, I saw a tiny puffball pulling its
small body up onto the deck: a baby raccoon. This was followed by another . . .
and then another. So, we had Little Mama
and three babies on the back deck. I put out a low, wide bowl of food, and Mama
showed them how to eat some of the cat food.
As winter faded, the babies began to grow, and by spring, a greater
variety of food outside became available to them, and they didn’t need us
anymore. They were foraging for themselves. But I never once regretted having helped Little Mama and those babies
that winter. Our world is changing, and sometimes, we all need help.
At some point in our lives, most of us have all been Little
Mama raccoon, desperate for some help, hoping for some of kind help, whether
it’s food or money for a bill or even compassion.
I see this now around me more than ever.
Not long ago, I saw an older woman on the corner of our
local Fred Meyer parking lot, with a sign that read, “Homeless. Please help.”
She wasn’t wearing a mask, and none of the people driving past in cars were
handing her any money. I parked my car. Then I took a new (still plastic-wrapped)
paper mask from my glove compartment, and I hurried over to her. When she
looked at me, I saw the same desperation I’d seen in Little Mama raccoon’s eyes.
I gave the woman a ten-dollar bill, and then I gave her the
mask and said, “If you put this on, I think you’ll have better luck.”
She thanked me and put the mask on.
I teach college writing online, and last summer, I had a
student vanish for over three weeks, turning in none of the assigned work and not
contacting me. He missed three quizzes, three homework assignments, and he missed submitting
a major term project. By the late policy laid out in syllabus, he could not
make up this work—and would fail the course.
One afternoon, he called me. He’d been laid off from his job
and had lost his apartment. His life had been interrupted. But he said that he’d moved back in with his
parents and had a reliable internet connection there and asked if he could make
up all the missing work. He was majoring in automotive technology. I couldn’t
see his eyes, but I could hear his voice, and he was desperate, like Little Mama
raccoon that cold winter.
I allowed him to make everything up, and he passed my
course.
My philosophy of life is, “Always err on the side of
kindness.”
And remember that at some point, most of us have been Little Mama raccoon.
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