Nadia Shireen - Raccoon Rampage - The Raid

“Rocky, you’re the lightest. Get on my shoulders.” Rocky didn’t look sure, but he was helped aboard by Dempsey and Quickpaw. Sunshine turned to face the wooden wall of Max’s storeroom. “Headbanger should have cut a circle,” he barked. “Loosened the wood. Hit it, right there in front of your face and we’re in.”

Rocky looked down at his friends. He turned back to the wooden wall, formed a fist and thumped as hard as he could. Sure enough, a small circle of wood disappeared, clattering on to the floor inside Max’s storeroom. The gang tensed, waiting for the dog to bark. There was no sound so Rocky peered into the hole. His keen raccoon eyes picked out rows and rows of gherkins and his nostrils filled with the smell of mackerel. His eyes shone as he looked down at the team below. “Bingo!”

Rocky was first through the home-made window, falling softly to the concrete floor. Quickpaw sat on Dempsey’s shoulders and landed quietly next to Rocky. Dempsey hauled Sunshine up and before long the Hole-in-the-Tree gang were standing in an Aladdin’s cave of raccoon food. Moonlight beamed through the small hole, illuminating more goodies than a raccoon could ever imagine. Dempsey was slobbering. Rocky’s tummy made funny gurgling noises.

Quickpaw Cassidy was the natural leader of the gang. He assessed the situation and whispered the orders. “Genius to get us inside Sunshine,” he said. “But this is where the project really begins. If we play it right we can secure enough food for the whole winter.” He grabbed a bag of birdseed. “For Headbanger,” he said. “It’s the least we can do. You guys fetch the food and I’ll sort out a bag.”

The raccoons went silently about their business. A small mountain of food was assembled below the hole in the wall. Quickpaw found some plastic bags. He leapt up to the hole and threw them into the outside world. “Now the tricky part,” he whispered, explaining the system.

Dempsey waited on the outside. Quickpaw sat in the hole. Rocky and Sunshine took turns throwing tins, packets and bottles to Quickpaw. He caught them and threw them to Dempsey who was chief bagger. The raid lasted less than fifteen minutes.

Three bags would probably have been enough. But the raccoons couldn’t resist going for four. They had built up a decent rhythm, and confidence had tipped into over-confidence. Rocky clasped a pot of jam and prepared to throw it to his leader when suddenly there was an almighty crash from the room next door. The guard dog barked furiously. Rocky’s fur went on end as he imagined being torn to pieces by a ferocious Alsatian. The raccoons heard more crashing and banging, the dog’s barks turning into whimpers of fear. Glass smashed and shelves came crashing down. The raccoons heard muffled footsteps overhead as the store owner sprinted across the landing, then light flooded under the crack in the door.

Quickpaw knew better than to hang around and investigate. Theirs was a secret raid. Whatever was going on in Max’s shop was waking the whole village and, judging by the racket, it was bigger than a raccoon. There was more smashing of windowpanes as Quickpaw and Rocky leapt from the hole into the snow. They saw a flash of white as Dempsey’s tail disappeared into the woods. There was no time to drag the bags of food. This was a life or death moment. They left their stolen goods and scampered towards the line of trees. They didn’t need to look back; the sound of Max’s shotgun said it all.

Max woke with a start. He was nimble for an old man and burglars always gave him an extra spring in his step. He thumped the light switch and leapt from his bed. He was sprinting across the landing before his wife realised what was going on. The dog was barking wildly. “What’s happening?” she wailed.

“Thieving raccoons,” shouted Max as a series of massive crashes and smashes were heard from the shop. Max yanked open his gun cupboard and pulled out his favourite 12-bore shotgun. He cocked it and inserted two cartridges, his hands shaking with excitement. He snapped his gun shut and made for the shop. The old man yanked open the door and the dog flew towards him, its tail between its legs. Max was surprised. Why would his dog be scared of raccoons?

He pointed the muzzle of the gun inside the shop and pulled the light cord. Light flooded the shop, illuminating a scene of total devastation. The front door had been bashed in and his shelves pulled over. “What on earth?” muttered Max under his breath. Cold air blasted through the smashed windows and Max felt a chill under his pyjama collar. “This ain’t no raccoon raid.” There was glass everywhere so Max stepped his bare feet into a pair of wellington boots. He crunched around the shop, gun pointing and his trigger finger itching.

He heard a yell outside and it made him jump. He pulled the trigger and a shot rang out, blasting a hole in the ceiling. “Who’s there?” he yelled, edging towards the broken window.

“It’s me, Uncle Max. Don’t shoot.”

“What on earth was that?” puffed Rocky, huddled in the safety of a redwood tree with the rest of the Hole-in-the-Tree gang. They had an excellent view of the village and watched as the action unfurled below. They saw the village begin to light up as people were woken by the commotion. Windows opened and heads peered out. A man walked out of the forest and headed towards Max’s store.

“Raymond?” shouted Max into the darkness. “Is that you, Raymond? Are you OK?”

“I think I’m OK, Uncle Max,” yelled the voice. “Did you see the bear?”

Max crunched his way to the shattered window and peered out into the snowy night. He took a flashlight and shone it out into the street. A young man came into view, his face ashen. “There was a bear, Unc,” he stammered. “A big, brown grizzly. And he sure was in a bad mood.”

Max stepped outside on to the veranda and his nephew limped up the steps to meet him. The men were wearing identical blue and white stripy pyjamas. “I heard a noise,” explained Raymond, panting like a steam train. “And I came downstairs, Unc. Thought it might be raccoons.”

Max nodded. “A menace,” he agreed.

“But it weren’t raccoons, Uncle Max. The door caved in and a bear threw me around the shop. I got your bat, Unc – the one you keep for burglars – and whacked him good and proper. ‘Take that, you grizzly monster. You ain’t stealing my Unc’s food.’ And I keeped on hitting him, Uncle Max. But he chased me and I think he knocked some shelves over.”

Max’s eyes were wild. He nodded in amazement. “And he escaped through the winda, Unc, so I keeped on chasin’ him. Out into the snow. Looky here. Here’s his big grizzly footprints.”

Max’s torch picked out the bear’s prints. “And he headed for the trees. And that’s when you showed up and I heard the gunshot and everything.”

A small crowd had gathered, villagers in pyjamas and dressing gowns; some carrying torches, some pitchforks. “Sounds like your young nephew saved your shop,” panted Miriam from the cafe. “He’s a hero! If he hadn’t chased that old grizzly into the forest, who knows what might have happened?”

Max lowered his shotgun and hugged his nephew. “Raymond,” he said. “Your ma’s wrong about you. You’re a good boy.”

“But it’s still winter,” said Tyrone from the hardware store. “Grizzlies don’t surface till the spring. They should be hibernating.”

“W—well this one most certainly wasn’t sleeping,” stammered Raymond. “My uncle’s shop proves that. And the footprints in the snow. And it’s nearly spring, ain’t it? Maybe this old critter just woke early. Maybe it’s global warmin’?”