Picture this. Your garbage has been raided for weeks. No matter what you do, every morning you find your garbage cans knocked over and trash strewn all over your yard. It’s a huge mess that you have to clean up before going to work and you’re at the end of your rope. You’ve invested in not one but two different sets of supposedly “raccoon proof” trash cans to absolutely no avail. So in desperation, you decide to get up an hour early and see if you can catch the little bastard in the act.
And sure enough, you get up and there he is, rooting through your garbage with merry abandon and turning your front yard into a landfill. You cry out in outrage and startle him, and chase him out of your yard, down the lane, and into the alley behind the mini-mall.
Wrong move, fuzzy. That’s a dead end. And so there you are, with your tormentor trapped and compeltely at your mercy. You advance slowly. Vengeance will be yours!
And then he gives you this look.
Please, sir. Can I have some more?
An hour later, you’re sharing your morning coffee and donuts (you, mostly the coffee, him, mostly the donuts) with your new raccoon friend, whom you’ve decide to name Skippy, and you’ve decided that clean front lawn are over-rated compared to having breakfast with someone who, as long as the donuts last, is a really good listener.