A Family Affair

I keep thinking, "I have to post about something other than the raccoons." Then, I go somewhere, like to an after-work reception for out-of-town visitors and people just want to talk about the raccoons.
Then, something else preposterously cute happens and...well....by popular demand: more baby raccoon photos.Yes, the dog has decided our little varmint visitors are not to be eaten. Indeed, for her they are a source of great amusement. To our amazement, she has been bringing toys and balls to them trying to convince them to play with her. While they don't grasp that concept, they are having a high time chasing her. The funniest part is, she lets them catch her. Since she's approximately thirty times their size, that's their only hope. They are gettting nimbler by the day, however. Oh, and maybe the most interesting development in this whole menagerie management escapade we have going on involves the family cat. Her disinterest in this whole enterprise has been steadfast until today. I guess she finally had to see what all the fuss is about, so she got out into the yard to hang back and observe.
To give you a little insight into the personality of our dog, the pink wading pool you see is hers. Once the temperature reaches about 70 degrees, she basically demands it. She lies flat in the pool and uses it to wash her toys. That's raccoon-like in a way, I guess. Maybe they're meant for each other.The dog and the cat are best friends, so who can blame the little black & white furball if she's jealous of this budding interspecies love affair?It appears there's plenty of infatuation to go around. Pretty soon, the raccoon kids be able to outrun the dog. At that point, we expect the cat to sit back smugly as if to say "Don't come cryin' to me."

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Sibling Adventures, Raccoon Style

A significant portion of Mothers' Day has been spent in the back yard. The mother of my children continues to be endlessly entertained by the baby raccoons. She actually took a break from her coonfest to prepare lunch for her mother. After a nice midday family meal, the ladies retired to the patio to watch the animals romp in the back yard.
There are encouraging coon signs from one of our pair. It has found the shrubbery and likes to root around in there. This morning, it climbed into a bush and moments after this image was captured, fell quietly to sleep.
The sibling raccoon isn't quite so advanced. It followed the other into the bushes, but couldn't climb the branches. This youngster seems to enjoy life's finer things, like lawn furniture. The round-the-clock feedings are getting tiresome, but it's interesting to watch these little guys grow. The fun to trouble ratio is still tilted in their favor, so they may be around a little while longer.

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Pet or Pest, Or In Between?

stand-up raccoon
Originally uploaded by Darrell

This image sums up the current relationship between my wife and the baby raccoons I rescued one week ago today. It's fair to say the the little critters have dominated our lives since last Friday. There have been round-the-clock feedings, visits from friends and neighbors and photo shoots. It's like having a baby in the house, except you know the commitment is short-term.
The reaction is across the board, too. Many people are urging us to find a way to keep them while more are strongly advising us to get rid of them as quickly as possible before we regret having them around.
Look at the little guy holding the hand that's feeding him! I suppose there's a real danger that eventually he will bite it.
Maybe we have received a sign from a higher power. The Great and Powerful Google has placed an ad on the top of the Daddy D page:
What are they trying to say?

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Reclining Raccoon

It was a hard day in the yard for the varmint babies, who earned a moment of rest.
They're getting stronger every day, thanks to the devoted care of their bottle feeder. They're learning how to walk and they're getting the concept of climbing. The only thng is, they like to climb on the person who has been feeding them.
Admittedly, it's kind of creepy, but it's cute, too. They know who has the food. They know her voice and they have begun to make little raccoon noises when they hear it.
While my wife is nurturing them, I am challenging them. Hey, if they can climb a leg, they can climb a tree. Right? So, I've been been trying to teach them to find their way up a trunk. Our research tells us it's too early for that, but at least one of these raccoons is special. I mean, there's some cosmic reason we have baby raccons. There must be. I stuck close, though, because they just aren't strong enough yet to reliably cling to the tree.
It's all perfectly silly and borderline irresponsible, but it's been fun. My wife is finally openly admitting that she's really enjoying caring for the baby raccoons.
The raccoon rescue is still all the rage. Today at work as I walked the halls at least four people asked about them. It's been a fun ride so far...kind of like hopping onto a foot on your way to being fed.

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Forgotten Citizen

The Princess of the Manor
Originally uploaded by darebouche

There is still rampant fascination about the raccoon babies, much to the disgust of one little green-eyed monster.
The family cat seems to be lost in the shuffle. While her canine counterpart continues to be curious about the raccoons, the cat will have none of it.
She won't go outside where they are. She won't even look at them. Her disinterest is epic.
I kind of like that about her. She's staying away from us, too...remaining aloof except when demanding food.
As for the babies, there's not much new to report. They're eating well and getting stronger. We tried a climbing lesson the other day, but it's still too soon. They're still around, not that the cat cares anything about it.

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The White Hot Spotlight of Celebrity

The baby raccoons are on the brink of going commercial. Legendary Shreveport photographer Neil Johnson saw them here or elsewhere on the web and got all charged up. Neil struck gold, (or, more accurately...purple) when he photographed a baby armadillo on a white backdrop. That session begat "Purple Felton," an image which has been used in myriad advertising media around town.
So, when Neil saw our raccoons, the lightbulb over his creative head came on and he thought, "friends for Felton!" So, he reached out and did his best not to beg us to bring the raccoons to his studio.
Happy to have our little friends immortalized by a professional, we packed them up and hauled them downtown, where they were forced into the light. For a raccoon, this can be disconcerting, particularly if he's only about three weeks old.
Neil gamely fired off a few frames, but was disappointed because his new masked models just aren't quite ready for prime time. They couldn't stand for more than a few seconds and their fur is still kind of spriggly.
So, Neil is trying not to beg us to hang onto them just a little longer so they can get where he wants them to be.
Maybe they need an agent.
Maybe my wife needs an agent. To say she has been the primary caregiver to the raccoons would be unfair. She's been the exclusive source of nutrition and research. Don't let her kid you, though. She's really into it. With the children hardly around anymore, she needs something to take care of. her background as a neonatal nurse seems to be helpful in this endeavor. Think about it: the first decade of her career was spent caring for struggling newborns. I recognize that look on her face.
Maybe she can be to the raccoons what Billy Ray Cyrus has been to his daughter Miley. I guess we should change their names from Cory and Topanga to Hannah and Montana.

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Coon Daddy and the Dog

It sounds like a 70's sitcom doesn't it? "Tonight, after an all new episode of Three's Company, a madcap comedy about those crazy Cajuns: Coon Daddy and the Dog!"
Instead it's just me, rescuer of baby raccoons, amusing myself on a soggy Sunday by letting my golden retriever check out the kids.The internet communities in which I dwell are abuzz about all of this. Some people have suggested these guys would be great in a stew. This led me to ask how big they have to get for us to wind up with stew and a couple of hats. Many more have warned us of the inherent dangers of hanging onto wild animals. The word "rabies" has been used a lot.
There's something about them, though. One of my favorite characters in modern literature, Detective Dave Robicheaux, has a pet raccoon. I know we have to let them go. The working plan is to take them to a petting zoo north of town. The folks there have agreed to raise the little guys and set them free. Right now, they're so cute and a source of such fascination that we simply haven't taken them yet.
Speaking of fascination, the dog is clearly showing a little more interest than she did at first. I'm convinced she's thinking something along the lines of "stew," too. But so far, she has resisted the canine urge to devour our vistors.
I'm not going to advocate any fate which has the potential to result in the little guys' imminent demise. I didn't save them to eat them or wear them.
They are getting stronger every day, and this includes their claws and teeth. My wife has been dutifully caring for them, but multiple bottle feedings daily is getting tiresome. I suspect once the work week wears on for a couple of days, it will be time to say so long. But you never know how these things go. The raccoon babies might be a hit. Coon Daddy and the Dog could get picked up for a 13-episode arc.

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It's Not Avian Flu, Is It?

We got to spend some quality time with The Happy Couple, which pleases us. When she's not grinding college classes or bonding with sorority sisters, our son's longtime love interest works fulltime at a specialty store.
She told us about the topic of a meeting called by her manager. It seems the boss wanted to discuss precautions made necessary by the spread of the "swan flu." At first, the staff thought they had misunderstood her. After all, this is the deep south where vowel sounds can often become ambiguous. But, she said it time and again, "Swan flu."
Apparently when people started snickering, she asked what was so funny. She was asked, "Are you saying 'swan flu?'" She said, "Yes. Isn't that what it is?"
I can't begin to tell you how simultaneously amusing and alarming this is. You know what this means, right? The manager was calling a big meeting to dispense wisdom, but her malapropism makes it abundantly obvious that she had not read a single word about the Swine Flu. She was just making up some crap based on something she heard.
I don't know whether to laugh or call the CDC.
I hope nothing catches on fire in the store. The workers might have to use a distinguisher. The good news is, the manager is a stickler for getting to work on time, so the staff uses good punctuation. I hope these little zingers aren't beyond your apprehension.
Still, just to be safe, stay away from swans until further notice.

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Raccoon Boon

It's Day Two of the Raccoon Rescue and not suprisingly our little ringtail visitors have names. Happy Couple II and some visitors spent quality time with the furry refugees, doing the late-night bottle feeding. The group engaged in a spirited debate about whether to give them names and if so what names to give them. Somehow, they settled on Cory and Topanga. I couldn't tell you which one is which.
Nocturnal by nature, Cory and Topanga apparently had an active night in the kitty carrier which is their temporary home. In the morning light, we let them wallow around in the grass. As best they could with their developing legs, they tried to follow us around.
One is obviously sronger than the other. Interestingly, the "weaker" of the pair is the better eater.
It's not every day you see baby raccoons, so they're all the rage for now. The cat got all worked up about it, as you might imagine. The dog showed only a passing interest. A couple of sniffs, followed by a conclusion that she would not be allowed to eat them and they couldn't play with her, she just walked away.
The raccoons will get cuter by the day. I know at some point they must go away. The longer they stick around, the harder it will be to make that happen.

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Babies Wearing Masks

Unexpectedly, we are caring for babies at our house. I stumbled across a pest control crew doing what they do, but they weren't dealing with rats or roaches. They were relocating some baby raccons. By "relocating," I mean they were going to take them somewhere and "control" the "pests." By "control," I mean something slightly more permanent. It's not a coincidence that another term to describe a pest control crew is "exterminators."
I just couldn't live with the idea that these fine professionals would lop off their little heads or something, so I made a snap decision. I had no idea what I would do with baby raccoons. I just knew I had to save their little lives. So, I took them home.
The family sprang into action, running off to the pet store to get tiny bottles and kitten food. Then, I went to the Facebook family for advice, posting a status update which said "I just rescued baby raccoons from certain death. Now what?" The reponse was immediate. There were many productive ideas. Here's what seems to be working out: a local petting zoo said they will take them, raise them and then release them. In fact, they are working with two raccoon babies now, and they said "What's two more?"
So, another day or so of bottle feeding and then the little masked refugees are off to the care of professionals. Here's hoping they keep their heads.

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All Dressed Up With Someplace to Go

Happy Couple II found a reason to get kind of dressed up just two days after after skipping town on prom night. There was no long dress or tux, but there was a tie involved. They both were called to the stage during an honors assembly at their school. They they were, well-scrubbed and academic, receiving applause from their fellow students. It was a proud parental moment, to be sure.
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There is a protest on the floor from the original Happy Couple. They are not pleased with their younger counterparts' designation as HCII. Apparently, my son and his longtime love interest want to claim some kind of intellectual property or copyright infringement. I've tried to come up with a more original nickname for my daughter and her boyfriend. Looking at these two, I suggested 'Milk and Honey," but I'm not sure they liked it so much. It seems to fit. They're the clean-cut, church-going kids. He was a finalist for student of the year...you know, wholesome like milk. She's sweet like honey. Somehow, I don't think it will stick.
If the older pair wants to have anything to say about all this, they're going to have to come around more. At 19, they're asserting independence, which is a healthy thing but provides them no say whatsoever in the assignment of nicknames. Appeals will be addressed only in person.

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Leftovers From The Road

If the success of a trip can be judged by the quality of the food and the desirability of the company kept, then consider our recent "Dallas weekend" a hit. While Happy Couple II was cavorting in an uptown park, we found ourselves in the decidely upscale Southlake Town Square having drinks and dinner with my witty cousin Ronny and his delighftul wife Allison. Ron is less than a year older than I, and as kids we were close like cousins should be. As adults we've spent alarmingly little time together, and seeing him was a real treat. He invited us to an Italian restaurant, which pleased us. The food was nice, the service was admirable and the company was outstanding. What more could you want? We pledge to see more of one another in the years ahead. I think as we enter the second half of our lives, we may need one another more.
On Sunday morning, after we had provided refuge for a handful of protesters and sent them on their well-fed way, our friends Steve and Dana popped by the Luxurious Uptown Hotel. Dana had a brunch destination in mind, and it was inspired. Nobody ever told me about Mattito's before, but I know about it now. It was spectacular. It's a Tex-Mex restaurant with a Sunday brunch buffet unlike anything I've seen, and I've eaten lots of places. The quaint, colorful exterior sets the tone as you walk in. When you go...and you should...prepare for a feast for the senses. I just had to stop myself before I descended into a devil's delight of unabashed gluttony.
We hit the highway fat and happy. We were out of town for just about thirty hours, so you couldn't really ask for anything more.

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My Daughter the Demonstrator

My daughter and her boyfriend, Happy Couple II, made a decision to skip their prom. Considering he's a senior, that seems significant to me. To them, it was a no-brainer. They had something better to do, namely participate in a rally to call attention to the plight of children conscripted into a rebel army in Uganda.
The nearest rally was in Dallas, which meant a weekend roadie. This also involved a peaceful protest march and an all-night vigil in a public park. They insisted. We thought they were insane. They insisted.
We insisted that if they actually did this, we would be close by. They did and we were.
So, my wife found an uptown hotel near the park. Turns out the hotel offered outdoor seating at its well-appointed lounge. It was a beautiful springtime afternoon, so we decided to relax under a shade tree. As my wife was, well...lounging, a group of young people began to parade by. This was not planned. There they were, HCII, amongst their protesting peers, contentedly strolling by. Their small group of socially conscious church kids was among hundreds who participated. They were not exactly dressed for prom, and they seemed happy about it.
They made it through the night out there in the park in the dark, despite brief episodes of rain. Not surprisingly, our phones began to ring about 6:30 a.m. It turns out a hotel restroom and a hot breakfast had developed an irrestible appeal. We were happy to oblige.
At first, it bothered me to pay for a couple of tanks of gas and a night in a fancy hotel. Then, it occurred to me what I might have had to fork over for a prom dress, shoes, a haircut and our share of a limo ride. Suddenly, that Saturday night in the park didn't look so bad.

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Ouch! That Really Hurts!

Age is not entirely a state of mind. There are physical manifestations of simply passing time. My wife was simultaneously amused and repulsed by the sight of me sitting on a sofa, enjoying a book by lamplight with the aid of little drugstore reading glasses. She felt compelled to document this occasion with her cell phone camera. Look, I don't want to take on the appearence of a codger, but I simply couldn't read that great little book with my contact lenses alone.
That was only the beginning. For a couple of months, I've been experiencing pain in my right hand. I figured it would go away on its own, but it didn't. When I was greeted recently with one of those firm "I'm a man's man" handshakes, pain shot straight up my arm and northward to my teeth. I decided I needed to see a doctor.
I worked my way in to see a veteran orthopedic surgeon, thinking I could get a cortisone shot and get all better in a couple of days. He grabbed my hand, put his finger on a spot and asked, "Is this where it hurts?" With some emphasis, I responded affirmatively, and he said, "Arthritis, my man."
Arthritis?!! That's a grandpa disease! I'm not a grandpa yet, although I'm looking forward to the day.
Another acquaintence of mine, who works in the doctor's office said, "Arthritis? That's mean." He stretched out the word "mean" like a singer on American Idol putting an unnecessary vocal run in a ballad.
There's not a lot they can do about it, except X-Ray it to help them determine exactly where to place the needle for that cortisone injection. That was "mean," too.
So, here I am...knocking on the door to 50 with reading glasses and arthritis. Can a cane and a lap blanket be far behind?
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For the record, the book was "Everything Hurts" by Bill Scheft, a happy coincidence. I loved that book and blew through it in two evenings.

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Chalk One Up For Justice

parking ticket
Originally uploaded by Darrell

There is glee in our home. My wife, a notorious follower of rules, got a letter from the city attorney advising her that the ticket she received for parking like this has been VOIDED.
It seems her indisputable photographic evidence got city hall's attention. She didn't care about the fifteen dollar fine. She cared that she had been falsely accused. She cared that she was obviously within the law but was cited nonetheless.
She took the time to gather evidence and file an appeal. The system works! She is vindicated. We are proud.
No word if the meter maid is on paid administrative leave.
Fight the power. Don't let the man kunckle you under, all that. Whoopee!

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Creeping Up on the Half-Century Mark

We spent the weekend celebrating the 50th birthday of one of my longest-standing friends. I'm inclined to call her one of my "oldest" friends, but given the occasion it seems an inappropriate use of the word.
I've known her for forty-four years. Her younger brother is my closest friend. She is much more than my buddy's sister, though. I told her so over a poolside dinner Saturday night. Anywhere along the way, she could have made the decision that I was her little brother's goofy friend, but that never happened.
Her first five decades have been lived abundantly. Her well-earned nickname of "Tropical Gypsy" speaks volumes about her choice of lifestyle. She lives fulltime in the Florida keys, has been a producer of a well-known national TV show and knows love across the spectrum. Her five brothers and sisters, along with their children, assembled in Houston for the big Five-Oh party. She had cousins and friends there, too. This event was a sequel of sorts, her seaside friends having feted her several weeks ago.
She was awash in affection and deservedly so. It gives me hope. Her brother and I hit fifty next year. She's facing the second half of her life with a drink, a wink and a laugh. It's an example I hope to follow. That's what friends are for.

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Portait of My Father

My father, soon to be 83 years old, has been nagging me for three years about one of my gates. It was sagging and dragging. He kept saying he would come fix it. Finally, the day came. We had a full slate of outdoor projects: build a planter, repair the fence, fix the gate. He showed up with tools and materials. We were making nice progress until we had to take a break to visit the home improvement store for a few things. I made the run, came back and found this.It was a spectacular day, no question about it....perfect for a nap, as it turns out.
I kept on about my business, literally doing the heavy lifting. He stayed the whole day, ate two meals, had a siesta and even drove a nail or two.
The good news is that we accomplished everything we set out to do and more. The better news is that at almost 83, he can still supervise a project and even pitch in between naps and meals if he needs to.

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The Miracle of Modern Communications

It took less than twelve hours for us to find a new housekeeper. We can thank Daddy D's Storytime, Twitter and Facebook for the speedy resolution.
Anytime there's a new blog post, it becomes a Tweet on Twitter. This, in turn, becomes a Facebook status update. First thing this morning, I got a text message from a friend who had read about our recalcitrant cleaning lady on one of the webpages. His person, with whom he is very pleased, had lost a client yesterday. We called her immediately. By happy coincidence, she is working two days a week in a neighborhood less than a half-mile away. We struck a deal and she starts next week.
She was down one client for less than a day and we were down a housekeeper less than a day. It all worked out. Even-Steven.
Love to hear the robin go tweet, tweet, tweet.

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You Really Can't Get Good Help

For many years, we've had a lady come to the house a couple of times a month to do the big cleaning. You know, the floors, the bathrooms, that kind of thing. She doesn't do windows. She doesn't do laundry. If there are dishes in the sink, she doesn't put them in the dishwasher. Most of the time, she leaves dust on surfaces. She has never cleaned a ceiling fan.
We agreed to a price. She has accepted our money. We've given her a cash bonus every Christmas. She's not the best housekeeper in the world, but she has been reliable about showing up. She has been trustworthy in the house. Those two things on their own have great value.
Knowing she was coming today, my wife wrote a note asking her to vaccuum the sofas and this one chair. It's pretty reasonable request. She left the note along with a check and left the house for the day.
When she got home, there was a note from the housekeeper saying that she did not do the couches. She wrote that what we have been paying her is outrageously low...that after she buys gas to get here from wherever she lives and brings her own supplies, the fee she earns "even makes it lower." Can I emphasize that she agreed to the fee, that we never asked her to bring her own supplies and that where she lives is irrelevant since she took the job?
Here's the kicker, keeping in mind that this is something like only the second time we've left a note asking her to do something specific: she finished with a flourish, "so to add extra duties not gonna happen." I guess respect and punctuation would require an extra fee.
Know what else is "not gonna happen"? She's never setting foot in our house again.
So, I need someone to come to the house a couple of times a month to help us clean up after ourselves. We'll buy the supplies.

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Whaddaya Know? She DID Sing!

We were graciously given two tickets to tonight's Shreveport Opera event at the Riverview Theater. So, to the culture we went. We enjoyed the evening. It was an excuse to kind of dress up and it got us out of the house. The music was Mozart, and we all know Wolfgang could get it done. Patrons of the arts, particularly our benefactors, may not truly appreciate what I endured.
See, the NCAA Tournament was going on while we were listening to the pretty singing. Villanova and Pittsburgh were engaged in a classic tournament game....one for the ages, I'm told. I wouldn't know. I was at the opera. Oh, and our Arena Football team opened its season tonight with a one-point loss. While I was at the opera.
I might have been oblivious to all of this, except for a combination of modern communications and some abusive friends. My Blackberry was abuzz with text messages and Tweets about the games. Abuse was being heaped upon me. At approximately the same moment there was an on-stage death, I was forced to surrender a chunk of my sports fan credibility as Villanova drove the length of the court to score a game winning basket with five-tenths of a second remaining in the game. I kept my electrnoic correspondents amused by updating Twitter and Facebook from my seats in the orchestra section.
If there is a bright side, it is this: I was able to get absolute confirmation of an enduring truth. The opera is indeed not over until the fat lady sings.

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