The Fright Stuff

A door is open. The bandit leaves the dead squirrel he’s been gnawing and trundles across the threshold. He pauses, cocks his head, and scratches his side. No sound comes from inside the house, and he continues down a hallway, toward the smell of food. The scent of an unprotected loaf of rye bread catches his nose. . Crumbs scatter across the shiny wood table. When most of the bread is gone, it’s time for dessert. He reaches into a wooden bowl, picks up a foil-wrapped chocolate, unwraps it, and pops the candy into his mouth. When he hears a gasp, his head swivels toward the sound. He stares, his eyes—surrounded by a black mask—unblinking. Human and raccoon gaze at each other. The raccoon climbs down from the table and scoots past the two-legged intruder, his behind wiggling as he scampers back down the hallway and out the door. This raccoon has little fear of humans. In fact, like most raccoons in cities and other places without serious predators, he’s taking advantage of living fear-free. He forages day and night for bird eggs, small animals, or a loaf of rye bread held captive in a plastic bag. For many raccoons,