I spent a good part of my weekend watching for a blind raccoon named Smokey.
I’d seen this raccoon before – she has ventured into the area where I’ve been feeding my ferals these last two years, since I was lured into rescue work by a combination of divine intervention and personal foolishness. Her eyes are white with cataracts, but she seems otherwise healthy and her manners are always impeccably polite, reaching with long fingers and opposable thumbs for the food I’ve put out, collecting it and crunching it with great satisfaction in her sweet face, while my ferals recoil in fear and repulsion. She freaks them out because the only ‘coons they ever see are ruffians who bullyrag them out of their chow. Miss Smokey, on the other hand, is an excellent dinner guest. And mostly, she sticks to her own territory on the far side of the parking lot.
Why is Smokey in my care now? I blame the Coca Cola company.
The Odwalla company, which has been home-based here in Half Moon Bay, was bought several years ago by Coke, and an entire building full of people has slowly been phased out of jobs. A couple of them – women, natch – had been feeding Smokey plus a couple of cats for years now. Because they live a good distance away, it no longer makes sense for them to drive over just to do the morning feeding. Having seen me in the parking lot, they approached me about taking over the routine. Despite the fact that I have zero bandwidth to take on more critters* I of course said yes. (Francis, were he alive, would not say sorry, it might cut into my Facebook time or Zumba classes.)
(*This would include, in my home, my original three: fluffy black Claude the curmudgeon, tiny sweet manipulative Thumbalena, her rambunctiously alpha boy Iggy Pop, and two parking lot refugees: foster kitty Romeo, a huge fluffy male whose fractured hip means he can longer live safely in the wild, and Mocha the Miracle – 20 years old now after living 18 of those in a parking lot eating garbage and sleeping under cars until I brought her home. My outdoor non-pets include Charlie, a stray who lives on my front patio; and the three kitties in the parking lot that I feed: mama Grace, Russian blue relatives Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Of those, only Grace has eluded my trap, and the vet’s fixing surgeries.) (I have my hands full.)
Odwalla’s closing day was Friday, and I met Una in the parking lot, where she sadly passed me her cat/coon food, thanking me profusely for stepping in.
And since then, I’ve been visiting the feeding spot every few hours – which is luckily just across the street – hoping for a bonding moment with Smokey. On my final visit at sunset yesterday, the food was gone, and the water had clearly been used as a washbasin, with dirt and leaves floating liberally – a sign that a raccoon had been there.
My reason for wanting to gain Smokey’s trust is not because I need more critter love in my life; I want something better for this old raccoon. For years she has scrounged around Odwalla, hoping for food, trying not to get hit by a car, caring for babies she somehow efficiently raised. On day one of Smokey Watch, I ran into a fellow cat rescuer at the Farmer’s Market and told her about my new responsibility. She agreed with me that poor Smokey was due for a break, and soon emailed a friend who works at a Wildlife Refuge, about perhaps letting Smokey seek sanctuary there.
Sometimes I feel a divine presence in what I do for a particular critter; other times I feel like I’m whistling in the wind. I’m hoping in this case that it’s the former, not the latter. Come on Francis, help a blind ‘coon out.