Dream Creatures

Last week these two baby raccoons waddled into my backyard. This is how they walk, haunch to haunch, like they were tied up for a three legged race. They aren’t fast, baby raccoons — here they are staggering towards  the bowl of cat food that I was able to punt before them.

And here they are, a little while later, eating some canned cat food off a tea cup saucer. They might not look it in this photo, but these guys were SMALL, like the size of kittens. And noisy: they clicked, and coo’ed, cackled and chirped the whole time they were stuffing their mouths full of Friskies. And they are very messy.  Look:

This is them, two days later, when I shoved another little plate of food at them. Yes, that’s Sparky (the more golden-colored one) going in feet-first. That’s Jeff (the smaller, more fiesty one) trying to get in the scrum on the right. What a mess they make. They are PIGS. Yeah, I’m GLAD that I haven’t seen them in a week. Right! Who needs this kind of slop in the yard? Huh? No sir, not me. Good riddance.

I’m not saying there is a direct cause-and-effect here, big fat piggy baby raccoons and nightmares, but three nights ago I dreamt that I was married to New Jersey Governor Chris Christie. (I could not find a photo of Christie that shows any part of him below the sternum: because he is way, way fat and to show that reality would be…what? Politically Incorrect?)

And the night before that, I dreamt that I was married to Simon from The Real Housewives of New York City:

Neither of these guys, in my waking moments, is my cup of tea. But when my dreams are this vivid, I try to figure out what I’m trying to tell myself. And fact no. 1 is, I like being married to my husband; so my dreaming of being married is always a sign that the info in the dream is good for me.

And I must admit that I like how Chris Christie is hammering the special interest groups of New Jersey with the message that tax payers do not exist in order to provide slush funds. (And who in New Jersey, or America for that matter, is not a special interest, these days?) And Simon, even though he is an Australian with an English accent (No, Simon, no matter how you pronounce your A’s no one will ever mistake you for a Windsor), I have to admit, is a good loving husband to his whack-job wife.

Being able to acknowledge good things about people I find viscerally off-putting: that’s growth, right? And I mean all those painful urinators and users of mixed metaphors and cliches who I usually bad mouth (see: last wekk’s posts), OK?

So OK, I’ve learned my lesson. I learned what the two little pigs in the backyard were trying to teach me.

NOW will you come back, baby raccoons? Please?

8 comments to Dream Creatures

  • Vivian

    I might have accidently published this when it was in draft form, when it was called Poop, about, well, poop. Did anyone see that?

    And WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY KILLED GOERGE?? George got hit by a BUS?? Wait: HE JOINED THE ARMY?? Was the bus in Afghanistan?

    Well, the Year of Magical Thinking is actually one of the few Joan Didion books I can stand. The title sucks (where was her editor, for god’s sake) but I thought she wrote well about the numbness of grief, the details of vivid pain brought on by the smallest things (she thoughtlessly closes the dictionary that her husband had been reading shortly before he died and instantly regrets it, knowing that she’s lost knowing the last words he was reading, thinking about).

    When it comes to Too Much Information, I just thought it was breathtaking that a book reviewer would mention her own painful urination…in a book review.Or that a drug addict would “explain” his addiction on the same, just because it’s really scraping the bottom of the old Pity Pot to come up with THAT.

  • Janet

    As my life borders on unraveling (as all lives do at one point or another), TV makes a good place to escape to — like Grey’s Anatomy. So here’s more info on what happened in the last year’s season finale as well as I can remember from a year’s distance. George gets all inspired by Owen’s dedicated service as an Army doc, and out of the blue, he decides to join the Army. Crazy. He’s on his way to see his mother (I think) and while he’s at the bus stop, a bus goes out of control and he jumps in front of it to save some woman. Of course. He gets taken to Seattle Grace naturally, but he is so badly injured that he’s not even recognizable so no one at the hospital even knows it’s George. Meredith finally figures it out — some kind of sign language from George as I recall — but it’s too late and George dies. Sob. The last scene is George in his uniform and Izzie in an elevator — both headed to the Other World, except Izzie gets a reprieve and shows back up in the first show of the new season, only to run into Kathryn Heigl’s contract negotiation issues and a baby, and Izzie hasn’t been seen for many, many episodes. And that’s way more detail than I should admit to remembering.

  • Sandy

    Yikes – we rescued a tiny raccoon years ago – bottle fed him, got him shots and nurtured him along – he was adorable and so fun – until he hit adolescence – teeth, claws and all – then it was time for a drive into the woods – cute, messy Oh Yeah and they poop everywhere – any way I digress – hope your dreams flow and the answers to life follow – then let us know – please.

  • Rachel

    Please Vivian, baby raccoons may be cute as kittens, but they really are wild animals and need to stay that way. As Sandy said, when her’s got older it got nasty. Except, set free in the woods, it had had no training for what to do in the wild. I know it is hard, I know they are really adorable, but please let mama do the raising and dont interfere.

    Climbing back down off of the soapbox, and returning to whatever I was doing.

  • Vivian

    So I should take down all those Missing Raccoons posters that I’ve stapled onto every telephone pole around here? Ah jeeze, well, I guess I can make do with just 14 cats, 0 raccoons…

    And don’t knock TV. Don Delillo (the famous manly writer) himself said that the one good way to ward off the fear of death is to watch a lot of TV. So if anyone asks, just tell them that you’re communing with the most famous post-modern American litterateur in the pixels of channel 44. As vices go, TVing is the least self destructive. (For an ugly guy, Owen was really sexy when he showed up in the ER and stapled his own leg together, but when he came back later with PTSD he was just homely again. And yes, I do sneak looks at it still, in its 1:00-3:00 time slot, which is really inconvenient.)

    Hope your life ravels again soon. But until then, there’s a whole Summer of America’s Got Talent!! Yay!!

  • The photo does not not give a true impression of the racoons’ size? So what happened to the tea bag then?

  • Deb

    Wild or not, they sure are cute! I grew up in the sticks and never saw racoons that small without their mama. I would have fed them too. Cat food was a stoke of genius.

    But the dreams? Good for you? Hey, I’d love to see a new kind of political wife and all but are you sure you didn’t eat something bad? Maybe the fat husband reference was a warning about food.

  • Anne L

    Dream creatures – such an apt name! Vivian, I hope that by now the raccoons have returned to your yard. Here in Minnesota we have two raccoon families making daily visits for supper. We put cracked corn out for the deer, geese, ducks and other animals. It’s so interesting to watch the raccoons eat. They pat the corn with both front paws before they put it into their mouths. They really seem to take their time for the meal. The babies in one family are a bit larger than the others, each of which has a body about the size of a 5 lb bag of sugar. Tonight we watched one family with five babies walking in a line (like baby geese or ducks) into the bushes that lead to the woods. Pretty cute!

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