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?