Who is Enraged?
February 11, 2016
One evening last summer, I was watering flowers in my back yard as a daily routine before the daylight faded away. Gripping the nozzle trigger at one end of the water hose, I felt the water swishing, the smell of the dry soil flying, and the sounds of the cars whizzing from Canada Way. Everything seemed normal. I liked this feeling.
Not really, because I felt something strange. A strange sound mingled with the familiar noises. It was a constant hum or low purr, but was not from a human—maybe, from a machine. Curiously, I laid the water hose on the ground and then walked toward the sound, searching for something with my two eyes. In a corner beside the garage, I saw a round gray figure sitting on the lawn. As I was walking closer, suddenly, that creature moved, raising up a furry head with two erect ears and looking at me. It was a wild animal. Was it a cougar? Whatever, I was too frightened to find out!
I darted home in a rush of wind and slammed the door as if it was chasing after me. Panting, I cried: “A creature. A creepy creature.” My husband looked out at the yard through a kitchen window. He said it was just a raccoon. The raccoon ignored my appearance. It sat at the same spot, bowed its head to the ground, and clawed the grass with its two short forepaws. In the dim light, the raccoon seemed to wear a black eye mask. It stared at the dirt seeking for worms as its forepaws were turning up the grass. Soon, a big area of turf on the lawn had been rolled up, and it became bald. The raccoon wouldn’t stop until the whole lawn was turned over, I worried.
Trying to scare the raccoon away, I banged on the glass window (making sure not to break it). It paid no attention; it only focused to the earth where it could find more prey. Then, my husband opened the door and stepped out to the yard. He knocked on a metal chair with a snow shovel to make a noise (clank, clank) to scare the raccoon away. The raccoon stopped clawing and stared at my husband. Continuously, he hit the wooden fences and shouted at the raccoon to leave. Frightened, the creature crawled up a wooden fence, looked back at the grass for a while, and leaped off the fence. Finally, it was gone. It would find food in the woods, I hoped.
I am, of course, enraged at the raccoon that destroyed my lush lawn. Every time when a wild animal disturbs my life, I am angry. Nevertheless, such an intruder in a residential area is common enough. It is not a strange thing to see wildlife traces around us: crows rip the garbage on the ground, squirrels find home in the attics of people’s houses, and bears steal fish in the garden ponds. They bother us; we are enraged. Wild animals should live in their habitats—woods, mountains, or rivers. There are their homes.
However, they have lost their homes. Many of their places have become human’s homes due to the land development. People cut trees to build houses, the checked living boxes, where animals used to live. They are enraged too. Humans destroy their homes where they can hunt prey. They are hungry.
I understand that. The next morning, I shoveled the dead grass away and scattered grass seeds on the dirt.