By the time I'm at the bottom of S. 1st, just a few blocks from home, I've moved onto the sidewalk and started thinking about other things. Broken hearts and bitterness, mostly, which isn't a common subject matter, but one that certainly comes up every now and then. I'd started singing a song that I'd written with an old crush, and it reminded me of her and my own disappointment. Nearby, the cars are whizzing across wet streets, and ahead a hear one run over a heavy branch.
Standing on my pedals, I make my way up the hill as quickly as possible. A car trying to get out of its apartment parking lot has pulled into the sidewalk, and I make eye contact with its driver before weaving around in front. Wheezing from the exertion of an uphill climb, I'm surprised to see a raccoon standing by the curb. Normally they run away, but this one is entranced by the shiny shards of a broken break light. I see them reflecting as a car drives past, and suddenly I decided to stop and get the raccoon out of the road. South 1st is a dangerous road. At the top of the hill a white bike has been strapped to a lamppost, memorializing the death of a cyclist. Many people have been hit here. A raccoon, especially one dumbfounded by shiny plastic, wouldn't fare much better.
Swinging down my kickstand, I get off my bike and start looking for something to poke the raccoon with. My hand is no good for that purpose, because it doesn't like bites and I don't like rabies. Luckily, there's a stick--satisfactorily long--lying near my bike, and I pick it up. Four more cars roll past, and I glower at each one, sending them the psychic message: If you hit this raccoon, I'll fucking whack you with my stick. Once they're gone, I move into the road and start prodding the raccoon towards the sidewalk. He doesn't move, but remains huddled over the shattered brake light, bobbing slightly with each poke. "What the fuck are you doing!"
And then I notice. Those aren't shards of broken plastic. That's blood. The raccoon is bleeding from his nose, completely dazed. "Oh fuck! Fuck!" I storm back to my bike, hurling the stick on the ground. The raccoon is fucked. Looking back it, my mind quickly plays through my options: healing him, putting him out of his misery, abandoning him. I can't do any of these things, so I pick the stick back up and start prodding him again. Eventually, he turns, slowly, and looks at me, small puddles of blood forming over a new patch of cement. He reminds me of my cat Buster, the way he's looking up at me. It's a look of trust and confusion. This is a fucking wild animal, and he's looking at me like I can somehow help. But all I can do is keep prodding him, pleading with him to go. And eventually, he steps up onto the sidewalk, curls up there. I consider taking him home with me, taking care of him. But that's no good. "I wish I at least had some food for you."
And then with sudden fervor, he stands back up and darts into the brush, reminded that he's a wild animal and I'm a predator more than ten times his size.
