CHIMNEY SWEEP

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Plan A: Empty the linen closet, climb a stepladder, push open the 18" x 18" trap door and ...what? Say "Here kitty, kitty," and lure it down the ladder with me? Nope.

Plan B: How about playing Green Beret, climbing into the attic for a little mano a mano, until the raccoon runs out the vent hole—or attacks me? No again.

Plan C: Call the Department of Natural Resources. Their advice was to take a live trap into the attic. I didn't think so. I couldn't picture maneuvering a livetrap full of feisty critter through the trap door and down the ladder. The DNR official did deliver an eviction notice to a pesky raccoon. By Joseph K. Novara mention that raccoons were particularly sensitive to the smell of ammonia. This gave form to Plan ...

. . . D: The coon let himself in. He could let himself out. I just had to be sure he was gone—with a little coaxing.

An old diaper—refugee from the ragbag—smelled just like I remembered, after a liberal dose of ammonia. Then I climbed the ladder in the linen closet, propped the trap door open with one hand, and lobbed the stink bomb into the enemy bunker. A second cup of coffee and an hour later, I climbed my extension ladder to the roof, pitchfork in hand. There was a raccoon leaning against the chimney—a massive, sardine-fed, ottoman-on-legs, woozy raccoon. His eyes looked unfocused, almost drunken. I gave a quick jab with the pitchfork, and he shambled over a peak in the roof to whatever route he took to the ground. I trundled all manner of rubble and debris into that flue. It was going to take a Rambo raccoon to get into our attic.

A few days later, Kyle and his wife got in their Nash Rambler to take care of some errands—the cleaners, the hardware store, the grocery store, lunch out. I happened to be in the front drive shooting hoops with my daughter when they returned.

"Isn't he cute?" my daughter said.

"Who?" I asked. "Kyle?"

"No, silly, that animal in the back window of his car."

He was kind of cute. Our neighborly raccoon had both paws on the backdoor window looking like the plush toy with suction-cup feet that some people hang in their cars.

Kyle almost dropped his groceries.

"Looks like you finally trapped him," I said. "Let's pretend your car is a mobile livetrap and we'll drop him off a few miles away."

"I wondered what that smell was. Thought maybe Lue put too many onions in the stew last night;" Kyle remarked as we drove toward the nearby woods.

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