Going Green and the Death of Rocky Racoon

It should not have been ignored but to my detriment I denied the obvious. For the last three nights I toiled at the medic job, and yes, it was not good. Throughout the three shifts I perceived of a tickle of the instinct I like to call, The Crapometer.

Usually the Crapometer is an accurate way to determine the eventual outcome of a call. For instance, pull up on a home for a cardiac call and see handicap ramps or a Dodge Dart in the driveway, its going to be a work up. Unconscious person call at a tavern, the crapometer goes off the scale. Cancelled by the BLS. While it is a useful tool in the public safety workplace the Crapometer can sometimes be a first line of defense in detecting a disturbance in the status of your domestic tranquility. Unfortunatley, I had ignored the signs.

Due to a pretty bad night shift and busy morning I elected to nap this afternoon and let my wife go to Mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception by herself while I planned to go in the evening. The arrangements having been made I continued to finish a few things around the house in preparation for a few hours of much needed sleep. But for some reason my Newfoundland was highly agitated and barking like a maniac both in and outside of the house. After a cursory look around the yard and finding nothing amiss I brought her in and yelled at her to be quiet and settled down for my nap.

About an hour later I was awakened by my wife's panicked calling of my name. (married guys will know the tone of voice well, its not a scream but it will raise the hairs on your neck when you hear it) So as I rapidly dislodged myself from the couch my wife related that there was a sick or rabid racoon in our side yard. She verified the veracity of this information as the alarm had been initially raised by our across the street neighbor, we'll call her Mrs. Kravitz.

So, I grabbed my Glock 17 off duty pistol and responded to the side yard where indeed I found Rocky, the apparently rabid racoon who had drawn his line in the sand near my stockade fence by the garbage cans. After doing some mental calculus I took aim at his pointy little head and fired one 9mm round at him. Bad luck for me, he ducked at the last minute and it hit him in the shoulder. Great, now I have a rabid, wounded and highly pissed racoon who then effected a hasty retreat in to my open garage door. Holstering my sidearm and employing a rake I managed to herd him back in to the driveway. Concrete!! No place to be firing rounds. He gradually made his way across the street to a neighbors yard where finding myself in a relatively safe place I fired again. Nothing! Then two more rounds!! Still he lived. I began to feel like Virgil Salazzo in The Godfather. Then two more.....well at least by now I wasn't shooting at a moving target. What the hell was this racoon wearing, a kevlar coat? Finally the coup de grace and he was off to Racoon Valhalla.

Seven rounds for a racoon. I could not have missed, or could I. Post mortem exam by the Animal warden showed 7 holes more than he was born with. My marksmanship vindicated I retired. Perhaps a Remington 870 from Santa.

So after a crappy day involving a doctor's appointment, off duty shooting, a wake and Mass where I am reasonably certain the Priest was Scat Singing during the liturgy, I returned to my humble abode where I lit a nice fire....and decided to go green.