This is an awesome thread story! Read it!

It also reminds me quite vividly of another similar story that happened to yours truly, in a time long ago and far away, which I shall try to describe below. In the meantime, read Mickey's story! https://twitter.com/BiasedGirl/status/1342070771322155008

Once lived in a neighborhood in a town in an area that had a LOT of raccoons. And I mean a LOT! I was in charge of locking and securing a number of buildings after hours at that time, which were old enough to qualify as heritage buildings, even if most had once been old stables.

The local trash panda militia used to congregate under the decks of these old buildings and give me the stinkeye as I made my rounds locking up the buildings. Presumably they thought I was denying them God-given rights to free reign in the break rooms of these raccoon eateries.

But I digress.

Rented a home in the area and started having problems with the local denizens—aforementioned posses of trash pandas. They'd mess with everything around the house, including but not limited to, the garbage cans.

And while I empathized with their goals of food for all, the reality of it was that they were making a mess of the garbage bags we'd waited far too long to take out to the curb, and thus were polluting our neighborhood with the stench of week-old table scraps.

So, being the avid hunter and outdoorsman that I was, I figured I'd simply trap the offenders, transport them to places unknown, and live in peace and harmony with the remaining not-trash-panda denizens of the locale. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

So I call my buddy a few (dozen) miles away. He's also an avid hunter and outdoorsman, but with the added advantage of having a live trap. I prevailed upon his goodness and wholesomeness and the fact that he was a longtime buddy of mine who probably owed me a LOT of beers.

"Hey man, I need to borrow your live trap."

"What fur?"

"Trash panda invasion. I need to provide relocation services."

"Cool."

And it was a done deal.

That night I set it out in the back yard, bated with what I instinctively knew was the very best in top shelf raccoon cuisine. Turned out it was the same stuff we were throwing out on the regular. Imagine that.

And I waited.

Of course, trash pandas aren't at their very best until at least midnight on a work night, so I retired to my chambers to wait, and perchance sleep. But I left the window cracked open so I could hear the trap spring.

I was almost asleep when I heard the tell-tale "CLACK" of the trap shutting behind what I could only presume was a guilty trash panda, locked in a cage of his own doing.

And oh was I right!

It was indeed a guilty trash panda. You could see it on his face. None too happy about being caught in the act, either, let me tell you!

And so, very gingerly, and with a very mindful mind toward my fingers vis-a-vis the wire handles being oh-so-close to the cage where the aforementioned guilty trash panda fretted, I picked up the cage and deposited it in the very center of the garage for the evening.

Or rather night, I should say, seeing as it was somewhat after midnight. And on a work night, as you might recall.

And I went back inside and slept the sleep of an innocent child, content in my easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy method of relocating offending trash pandas from my domain.

Awaking bright and early the next morning, I instantly remembered my conquered critter, safe in the confines of a cage in the middle of my garage. I went to check immediately.

And there he was.

He was still in the cage, securely locked away, but not quite as I'd left him.

He was entirely, every inch of his body, dripping, covered in his own urine. And furthermore, he'd spray-pissed an entire SIX FOOT SWATH of urine in a full circle around his cage. The entire six foot circle of garage floor was puddle-wet with raccoon micturition. SWAMPED!

How he'd had the foresight to drink that much water before becoming trapped in my live trap, I'll never know, but he most certainly had as much ammo as I'd ever seen come out of such a small beast.

After permeating the clear, cool morning air with a number of choice cuss words, I began to ponder the various methods in which I could dispatch this situation and come out relatively unscathed (and un-pissed-on.)

And then it dawned on me. I opened both the garage door and the back door of the garage leading to the back yard, and then VERY carefully (and slowly) popping the cage release...

before springing back to the corner of the garage, hoping the critter's desire for freedom outweighed his desire for revenge!

You know in the cartoons of old, where the characters spin their legs and sort of wind up before *THWONG* disappearing in a cloud of smoke in the distance? Well I'm here to tell you that move is indeed very real. That raccoon did that in front of my eyes that very morning.

Gone. Vanished. Puff of smoke. Zero to sixty in a fraction of the amount of time it takes a brand new (at the time) Ford Mustang. He was outta there! Headed for the hills. See ya later! Buh-bye!

And from that time forward, I never, ever, ever saw another single raccoon in the area again. Not one. Not once.

I don't know what he told his masked co-conspirators that day, but whatever it was, it was enough to convince them to forever keep the widest of berths away from what is now known in trash panda legend as THE TORTURE PALACE.

~FIN~