There were no bats. This time, I was battling more creatures of the night. Creatures so vile, so wicked, that it took all of my bravery to stay and fight.

Tuesday night, time to take out the garbage. A task so banal that I can do it will dictating notes, or chatting on the phone. Hundreds of times it has proceeded without a hitch.

Not that night.

I opened the garage door. Heard the scurrying, then saw the scurrying. The first raccoon (we’ll call him ‘dad’ raccoon), well, his was a coward. Perhaps it was my girlie scream, but he actually ran over my feet to get away. Then momma raccoon. She kind of stuck around. Then decided better of it when she saw my broom.

Close call. Victory, however, was mine. Until I turned on the lights.

8 furballs. Each a little bigger than a kitten, and snorting away at me as they dove into the ruptured garbage bag. Mmmm, dirty diapers. Feast, little guys, feast.

Wait a minute…I’m not supposed to corner babies if a mom’s around. Except I saw her at the end of the driveway (160 feet away). Okay, so I have some time to play with. I’ll just open the other door, give them their escape route…and watch as they go back into the garage.

I chase one out, two more run back in. Damn, I think they’re multiplying now. Now, I’m beginning to get angry (well, kind of, sort of, annoyed). Do they not realize that I’m on TOP of the food chain? They are eating my kid’s crap, after all.

Look, how cute, one of the fluffs has run onto my chop saw. Hmmm, no, no, can’t do that (but now I know how Jeffery Dalmer got his start — raccoons probably took over his garage too…that is a slippery slope my friends — first raccoons, next prostitutes).

Okay, so don’t turn on the chop saw.

I’ll turn on the Jointer. It’s bigger, more powerful. And louder.

A quick flick of the switch (oops, forgot to plug it in — seriously, are these raccoons multiplying?)…another flick of the switch and the Jointer roars.

Fluff balls go running.

And it’s just me and the maggot infested garbage.

Yup, top of the food chain.