“Uncle! Uncle! There’s a raccoon on Mimi’s bird feeder!” my 6-year-old niece yelled as she banged on the bathroom door. I was in the shower at the moment and I quickly turned off the water and hastily grabbed the nearest towel. Unfortunately, it was the smallest one we owned and looked more like a miniskirt than what I normally would wear to hunt varmints.
As I made my way down the hall toward the living room, I left a trail of soapy water behind me because I hadn’t taken the time to dry off. My wife Amy and my two nieces were looking out a window with a flashlight fixed on the yard bandit. I reached behind our bookshelf and grabbed my trusty .22 rimfire rifle, but I quickly realized that due to the raccoon’s location I would have to step out into the yard to make a clean shot. I tightened my grip around the towel and had my older niece chamber a round for me.
I then slipped out the backdoor of our cabin and quietly walked across our lawn until I could see the masked bandit. It was 30 feet away, illuminated in the beam of Amy’s flashlight as I raised my rifle with my left hand, clinching the towel around my waist with my right hand. Looking down the iron sights while soapy water dripped down my face, I did my best to make a headshot. Crack!
The raccoon jumped 3 feet in the air and when it landed it started running straight at me. Clearly my shot went under it. I had to make a split second decision. If I stood my ground, I would have to use my right hand to work the bolt gun, but that would mean losing my towel. I also could run for my life, clutching my towel and dashing for the door across the lawn in full view of my wife and nieces. I chose the latter.
