FrankieA Story by Luxovious Sloane
This is a story about how i ran over a Raccoon on the road, and how i handled the situation. haha.
I slammed on the gas pedal and the brakes through the curvy farm roads of Ohio hoping to avoid the highway police. I swerved around sharp turns despite the yellow warning signs and rolled over the stops in the dark country side, speeding of 20 miles faster than the law permitted. The storm moved closer, which was my concern. But I wasn’t overly worried. My Grey Mercury sable could withstand a hurricane. It was my ticket to freedom, my path to adventure, and the vehicle of discovery of not only the rolling landscapes, but a woman’s body in the black leather seats. I often grinned at the passenger seat, reflecting my midnight rendezvous.
The exhilarating Amy took my hand and slowly placed it under her shirt. Lauren’s smooth cheek and her scrumptious lips brushed upon me. Kaitlin’s long black hair covered our heads glued together. These memories were like caffeine. I was too excited to fall asleep and the “The Essential Billy Joel” CD blared, “I don’t know why I go to the extremes”. And I stared complacently at the florescent light illuminating only 30 feet into the night.
Suddenly, three absent-minded raccoons scattered from the bushy roadside on Highway 6 as if they deserved the right of way. I saw 3 raccoon’s faces startled by the car lights approaching them 80 miles per hour. 1 of them escaped to the opposite end of the road. The second raccoon darted back to the bushes. But the smallest, and probably the youngest, raccoon froze on the double yellow line.
I slammed my brakes and swerved. After a quick Thump, thump, I squirmed in my seat, squeezed my rear, grimaced and groaned, “I got one of ‘em.” And I slowed 10 miles below the speed limit, a hit and run. Could have I prevented the raccoon’s imminent death?
I changed their lives. But was it really that big of a change? I tried imagining the mind of a raccoon and felt constrained by the inevitable danger of mankind. I imagined hanging out with 2 of my friends in bushes, their black and white tails brushing against my black nose. We weren’t following one another, we’re just together. We searched for food together. We fought over whatever we found. There’s nothing to think of it. We wanted to live, and we thrived on animal instincts. And our instincts told us that we would find something across the road. We didn’t even notice the car speeding towards us a couple hundred feet away. And when we realized it, I got away. My friend got away.
Did they ask themselves, “What happened to the 3rd one? Oh god… The 3rd one is lying on the road. Should we stay with him? Or should we go?” Or did they even ask themselves anything? I turned the car around and slowly drove about 2 miles as my eyes scanned for a motionless raccoon. I didn’t want to run over it again. But when I first passed the killing point, there was no road kill. Wasn’t that amazing! The smallest raccoon survived a 2 ton car driving 80 miles per hour without a scratch!
So I pulled into a random drive way where the shady farmhouse’s kitchen lights were dimmed by white curtains, shifted my gears to reverse, and resumed my journey towards Cedar Point.
Unexpectedly, about 200 yards ahead, the raccoon dragged his hind legs sprawled out behind. When he saw my car lights, he panicked. I stopped as he froze once again, and stared at him through the windshield. He looked distressed, making raccoon noises even though I couldn’t hear him.
I sat in the car for a while, watching the raccoon. I wondered, “Is he crying because the other raccoons left him alone with a dangerous enemy such as me? Should I give him the chance to survive or run over him so he didn’t have to cry anymore?” Was I feeling too sentimental towards a measly raccoon? But with his eyes wide open, he desperately looked around for help, as if he were hoping for a miracle. He repetitively glanced at the headlights and then the bushy roadside. Were his cowardly friends watching?
I opened the car door, and finally heard the raccoon whimpering, laboriously breathing, and enduring either the pain or the fear, or both, I don’t know. The strong smell of either feces or sweat from the hot summer sun suffocated my nostrils. And I finally came to my senses, or at least made some sense of how to handle this. I guessed animals should make life or death decisions alone; I didn’t want any responsibility or that kind of power.
I pulled 3 white t-shirts from my suitcase in the trunk of my car, contemplating the risk of rabies. After all, I told myself, a rabies shot in the a*s probably doesn’t hurt as much as a 2-ton car travelling 80 miles per hour. I crept up to the raccoon. Would he panic and growl at me, and bite one of my fingers? Should I leave him alone? Or should I show him compassion and hope that he would understand, “It’s just an accident, and I’m so sorry for speeding 20 miles over the limit.” The raccoon ceased whimpering when I approached at about 2 feet away from him. But he breathed hard, looking straight at me with its mouth wide open. I saw his yellow teeth, his tongue, but he wasn’t growling. It must have been his reaction to death, and I’m the reason he’s going to die.
I covered both of my hands with 2 white T-shirts and picked up the raccoon with the 3rd one. He felt surprisingly stiff and heavy, almost like rigor mortis, but he was still alive. He didn’t even whimper. I don’t know if he was grateful, or if he was paralyzed with fear, but his mouth remained wide open, and I smelled its breath. His open mouth could mean anything. I placed him gently on the side of the road and wrapped his body with another T-shirt hoping to comfort him for the night. But I wondered if he would feel too warm since he had thick coat of fur. Oh well, I figured he should either die comfortably, or rest comfortably with a chance to recover, to fight for his life. I didn’t know what else to do, but I didn’t want to end his life too soon. After I apologized to the raccoon, I hoped he could sense the compassion and regret in the tone of my voice, and I rose off my knees and walked back to my car. Did he watch me walk away?
The raccoon whimpered again. Was it because I was leaving or was he overwhelmed by the pain? He couldn’t possibly be scared of me anymore. I was compassionate and harmless, and after a quick reflection, I felt like he deserved a name. To have a name is an honorable achievement in the wilderness. A dog with a name would be easier to remember than a cur. A cat without a name is lost and alone, and will be forgotten when death arrives. So the nicest thing I could do for the raccoon was to give him a name, to give him equal status of all pets in the world. “Frankie,” I called it. I would forever remember him.
I ran over Frankie, the so-called pet raccoon, who never had a home. I hope it didn’t rain on him.
© 2011 Luxovious Sloane
AboutI really don't know what to say... My writings are a reflection of myself haha. more..