rac·coon also ra·coon (r²-k›n“) 1. A carnivorous North American mammal (Procyon lotor) having grayish-brown fur, black masklike facial markings, and a black-ringed bushy tail.

Growing up in Europe, I've always had this image in my head of raccoons being these cute, cuddly, lovable creatures - sweet miniature-bears that you'd encounter frolicking on the banks of a river, busily washing a crawdad or fish before eating it. What nice and clean animals! Or at least that's Marlin Perkins, Marty Stouffer and Walt Disney would have you believe.

Recently, however, I've come to know a quite different side of them.
A rather tenacious, mean, and threatening side, that is.

For the past 4 weeks, a band of raccoons (or more precisely, a mother raccoon with her 4 young) has been terrorizing my house. They enter the laundry room through the cat door, eat all the cat food (or attempt to anyway), and only reluctantly leave, in the meanwhile scaring the crap out of my cats - and yes - me.

Because Mama Raccoon isn't taking any shit from anybody. I approach her and she turns, puts herself up on her back legs, glowers at me with her beady eyes, flashes her teeth and growls and hisses. Of course I know that she is only protecting her young, and I can't fault her for it - but hell, not in my house!

So I've taken to getting home and gathering my reluctant cats as soon as night falls, close up the cat door, and try to ignore the rustling and scratching outside my house.

I've also taken counter measures: at first there were the mothballs, strategically placed near the cat door (raccoons supposedly hate the smell of ammonia). Then came the shouting and yelling, combined with wild fire from my BB gun. But they didn't even flinch when a BB hit them nor really were bothered by my noises.

Yesterday then, I picked up some Cougar Urine from the Army/Hunting store and sprinkled it around the house - raccoons are supposed to be terrified of cougars and run at even the slightest hint of their No. 1 predator. Not *these* raccoons however. I watched them climb rather carefree around the very tree I had applied the cougar scent to.

So that really only left me with one immediate solution: the wrist-rocket. Sure, they didn't appreciate having filbert-sized gravel hurled at them with great speed and force - but they also didn't seem too bothered by it. Mostly, they just shrugged them off and waddled back into the night.

What now, you ask? I suppose I will have to trap and relocate them now. Not something I look forward to. But hey - if any alert readers have any other ideas, leave 'em in the comments. Why? Because you can.