Coons.

There’s an old saying round these parts which goes a little something like this…the only good coon’s a dead coon.

I have to admit, I’ve always held the raccoon in a certain esteem. They’re tenacious little bastards. Up all night sorting through the trash like that. They have those funny little hands and of course, who could resist, they wear bandit masks! I mean, c’mon. How cute is that?!

And so it is, now that I am engaged in a war against nature, that I am ambivalent at the sight of a dead raccoon on the side of the road – and given their purported cunning and wit, there do seem to be quite a number of dead raccoons on the side of the road, so on that point, nope, no longer sure. But getting back to the topic at hand, I often raise a triumphant fist and chuckle to myself: “not so smart now are we mr. (or mrs.) raccoon.”

However, as a huge fan of The Raccoons, Burt in particular, it’s a bit sacrilegious to be rejoicing in the death of an animal so dear to my heart. I’m torn.

Why must they be so mischievous?!

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