Masked Prowler: The Story of a Raccoon

by Jean Craighead George

  Procyon pulled himself free of his companions, crawled unsteadily over their backs and tried to focus his eyes on the picture above. But he still could not center both eyes on the same thing.

  Today he looked like a raccoon. He was covered with a fur of bark brown. His undersides and the tips of his small round ears were the color of corn tassels. The fur behind his ears and the mask around his eyes were black. And wound clearly along the short stretch of his tail were the black and tan rings that marked his species. Procyon gave the appearance of a young harlequin dressed for a summer minstrel show.

  The scratching on the inside of the den stopped and then began again on the outside of the tree. His head followed the sound. It passed by him and died away. When he stopped listening he was looking at the dry dust at the bottom of the den. He touched the crumbled wood. Many times before he had rolled on this cushion but he had not noticed its texture.

  He probed the crumbly chips with his hand-like paws, and it was as if he could see the soft wood. He was excited by this new sense and reached toward his fat sister who was sleeping with her head tucked under her body. He felt her short fur, her hard, bulbous head and wet nose. The sister awoke, rolled over on her back and pushed Procyon away with her feet. He leaped off to touch the walls of the den and to feel the cracks and niches until he knew them with his hands. Then he turned back to the bundle of cubs to sleep until his mother scratched her way back up the tree-home from her hunt.

  One evening Procyon was leaning against his sister studying his forepaws. In the shadows of the den he could dimly make out the wonderous twisting foot that belonged to him. Each day brought more vision to his eyes, more scents to his nose, more sounds to his ears and more shapes to the touch of his feet. Tonight he investigated his paw. It was dark brown with very little fur on it. It had five long toes and sharp clinging claws. He could rotate it and pick up objects with it. Procyon brought his paw up to his mouth and sucked it.

  “Snap, snap, snap!” He jumped at the cracking sound, fell across his purring brother and hunched down into a crevice of the den. Curiously he looked up toward the dim entrance. It was twilight and only a glow of rose light filled the hole. The mother raccoon was gone, and alarming noises filled the night woods outside the den. Procyon listened.

  “Snap snap, snap!” The cracking continued. The little coon braced himself with a front paw in the ear of his brother. The noise stopped but Procyon still stared at the den entrance. Then he dug his claws into the wall of the red oak and raised himself several inches. Climbing seemed easy and Procyon inched higher until he was a foot above his brother and sisters. At this perilous height he became tired.

  “Errak-k-k,” he cried. He looked far down to the round dusty backs of his sleeping den mates.

  “Errak-k-k-.” This staccato note was his distress cry. It attracted the attention of his fat sister. She looked up, gazed blankly at her brother and then stuck her nose back beneath her paws. Procyon did not know how to climb down. He did not even know how to drop, for his claws only dug deeper into the wood as his body sagged. There he clung, crying unhappily. Finally his squirmings loosened the grip of his claws and he fell. Instinctively he spread his legs and made a scratching slide to the bottom of the hollow. He purred as he wove his way into the pile of legs and tails.

  Outside the den, Otus, the screech owl, flew back to his nest cavity. Asio, his mate, was sitting restlessly on her clutch of eggs. She could hear the faint peeps of the owlets calling within their shells. One had begun to pip its shell with its tiny egg tooth. Asio would not leave the cavity. She opened her breast feathers wider to expose her warm brood patch to her hatching clutch. Otus stayed near the nest ready to dive at any prowlers. It was his warning snap that Procyon had heard. He had attacked the mother raccoon as she left for the woodland to hunt.

  In June as Procyon and his brother and sisters grew stronger they played more. They learned to climb to a niche in the den about two feet above the bottom of the cavity. One would struggle to this coveted shelf and fight off the others as they tried to dislodge him. Nipping and growling, the young coons would play at this game in their mother’s absence.

  When Procyon gained the niche, the others had trouble shaking him loose. He could clamp his milk teeth with a nasty pinch and his growls were chesty and mean. They would swing at his tail and nip at his feet until he finally lost his balance and fell.

  Then they would scramble up the wall, stepping on one another’s heads and backs as they climbed toward the coveted goal.

  At times they could not dislodge Procyon and he held the shelf until the others lost interest and sprawled back in the cavity to sleep. Procyon watched them drop out of the game one by one. Then he played alone. He rolled over on his back, batted the walls with his feet and chewed his tail. Dropping his head back over the shelf, he looked at his den mates upside down, dangling a paw tantalizingly in the air until someone jumped at it. Still sprawled on his back, the king of the niche nonchalantly growled and engaged his conspirator.

  Each evening after a long snooze through the daylight hours, Procyon’s mother busied herself cleaning her cubs and the den. She licked the fur, ears and stomachs of each coon until it was clean and fluffy. This Procyon liked. Her flicking tongue and softly stirring hands made him purr loudly. When she had cleaned his head he would snuggle against her mammae and feed while she went lightly over his back and haunches.

  One day Procyon bit her. With a growling snort she pushed him away. It was July—time for her to take her family into the forest and along the streams to find additional foods. The mother tested the strength of the cubs with prodding shoves. She had trouble moving Procyon from his broad grip on the den floor; he was indeed a powerful youngster. She watched him climb quickly to the niche and come down unsteadily but surely. With a little more time to develop coordination, the cubs would be ready for a trip abroad.

  One night the coon family was nestled down in their woody den high above the forest floor. It was a hot night. The light from the lopsided moon bleached the tree tops white. Here and there it penetrated the canopy of leaves and fell in misty blotches across the ferns and withering May apples. A deer mouse scurried onto a decaying stump, licked his white stomach and scooted into the shadows. Bats circled the open glades gathering insects that buzzed and hummed in the night.

  Procyon yawned and picked up his hind leg to scratch an ear. This was his first scratch and his foot didn’t quite reach its mark. But he closed his eyes in complete enjoyment as he pawed the air with his long toes. He looked at his brother as he rolled and squirmed in the den. He had just found his tail and was happily clutching it with all four feet. His mother was washing the round haunches of his sister. She lifted her with each stroke. The sister, purring happily, nibbled her mother’s toes. The other sister was sleeping. Procyon rose and climbed the walls of the den to the niche. There he sat, quietly surveying the family below.

  Then he touched the walls above him, dug his claws into the wood and soon was many feet above the shelf, headed toward the opening of the den. He stopped a few times to look down into the dark well. His brother was still amused by his tail, his mother was washing, and his sister sleeping. Procyon spread his rear legs wide to get a better base, and walked on up and up and up.

  Suddenly the moonlight was in his eyes and his right forepaw was touching the jagged tear of the entrance. All of the sharp splinters had been worn or chewed smooth. He reached farther. His paw curved around the edge of the hollow, black with grease and hairs, to touch the rough bark on the outside. The little coon shinnied higher, and pushed his paw out into the night. All he could feel was space. There were no more walls. In curiosity Procyon thrust his head over the edge of the cavity and peered into the moon-washed night. A swirl of dark limbs circled out from the trunk of each tree. Splattered along them were the rococo designs of the maple, oak and beech leaves, piled limb over limb to the sky.

  He reached out, retreated, reached out and moved on. He edged obliqu
ely down from the entrance until his paws touched the round firmness of a broad limb. Feeling his way carefully, clinging with his belly close to the tree, he pushed his way onto the limb that grew first out and then up from the main trunk.

  He peered down. The straight trunk of the red oak plunged into darkness. Its eastern side was splattered with moonlight. The young coon had a sense of being very, very high. He could not see the ground below him, only a deep abyss into which the shafts of the trees plunged. He pressed close to the limb.

  Out of the darkness plummeted Otus, the screech owl. He dived straight toward Procyon, veered and swept away. The coon hugged the branch, then lifted his head and peered blankly up at the tree tops. Again Otus struck at him. This time Procyon felt the owl’s talons graze his back. He moved aside and moulded himself to the limb like a sack of meal.

  Interested and unafraid, Procyon watched Otus alight, bob his head and swoop. As he darted toward him for the third time, Procyon flattened his ears and reached playfully for the owl. The swinging foot frightened Otus and he moved many trees to the north of the pawing cub. Here he alighted, drew his feathers close to his body and cried in a wavering screech. The tiny owl, far smaller than Procyon, sat erect as a stick watching the raccoon who represented a threat to his home. His ear tufts pointed up from his head and his gray body shivered from time to time. He made one more halfhearted attack at the young raccoon, then winged off toward Asio. Otus worried about the raccoon family for if they found his nest it might mean the destruction of his young.

  Back on the oak limb, Procyon heard his mother call and he scrambled into the den.

  A week later in mid-July Procyon awoke to hear the predawn carol of the wood pewee. It was a constant song unlike his pert call of the day. He unleashed this flood of music only at a certain hour of daybreak. The light was dim, the sun still well below the horizon. As if inspired by the transition between night and day, the little woodland dweller serenaded this magic hour. He began at four-thirty this morning and did not cease until the light touched the tops of the trees.

  He was singing not far from the raccoon tree. Procyon listened, then walked up the walls of the den to the limb. He crawled out into the dim morning light and looked across the top of the woodland. The indigo bunting added his song in counterpoint to the morning song of the pewee. The bluebird sang, the cardinal sang, and finally the melody of the vireos began. Loudly sang the woods.

  Procyon’s attention was diverted by a piece of bark that had chipped off the limb. He picked it up in his hands, rolled it over and over and then set it carefully back. From time to time he looked up to see a titmouse flying past his perch. The little raccoon was so absorbed with the coming dawn that he did not hear his mother climb out of the den followed by his sisters and brother. Procyon waddled toward them and the five raccoons sat upon their roadway fifty feet above the ferns and woodland grasses.

  The mother moved into the sunlight where the limb forked, and settled herself comfortably. Procyon and his brother found themselves a secure spot against the trunk of the tree, and the two sisters stretched out along the limb. There the family dozed until the sun was high and hot, then one by one they crawled back into the den. The old tree protected them from the heat of mid-day.

  That night the mother did not hurry away from the den. She climbed out of the cavity slowly, looking back to see if the cubs were following. Procyon understood that he could go with her, and eagerly climbed out of the den. The two sisters scrambled after him. The brother came tagging behind, reluctant to leave a wood chip that he had been batting around.

  With hesitating steps the family inched head first down the steep tree toward the ground. Procyon could smell the dampness of the earth below. He followed close at his mother’s heels, peering around her tail into the pit of shadows. It took the family long to descend for often the sisters backed up or stopped to rest but a low whistle from their mother hurried them on. A drop of water hung at the end of each coon’s nose, so long had they clung head down.

  Where the tree roots spread out Procyon could see the tips of the seedling oaks coming up through the grass and ferns. He ran along a slanting root that grew like a buttress from the tree. Then his front feet touched the ground; it was cool and leafy. He walked several inches on his forepaws and toppled against a woods nettle.

  Procyon clutched the green whorl of leaves and pulled it into a heap with him. He growled as it sprang back. A rustle in the leaves to his right frightened him. With a flip he turned around and crouched into the ferns. The sound was his own family weaving off through the summer flowers and leaves. Procyon hopped up, thrust his forefeet between his hind and galloped after them. He ran to his mother’s side.

  She trotted down a ravine, across roots and into a low marshland. The four cubs followed her as fast as they were able, which was not faster than a turtle’s pace for they stumbled and fell along the trail. They blundered into flowers and sticks and roots. They stopped before logs and fumbled their way clumsily over them.

  One sister did not keep up with the group and in the woodland meadow she took the wrong trail. She became lost in the tangled foliage. When she discovered her mistake, she ran in circles calling her mother. The mother raccoon heard the cry and turned back.

  The grasses snapped and stirred as the mother galloped toward her.

  The sister heard the sedges break, and alarmed by the noises, ran faster in the wrong direction. Then the mother called and the sister understood the commotion in the grass was her mother. She answered joyously and bounced to meet her. The old coon led her back to the family.

  This marsh that lay within the woodland was not their destination. The reassembled family started off again and followed the mother around the edge of the swamp, over an old rail fence, rotting in the woods, and down to the sandy brink of the woodland stream.

  Procyon did not see the water in the stream bed. He waded right into it, stopped and sprang away. The cold water had soaked his forepaws. He reached out to pick it up, but it slipped away leaving his hands cold. Then he thrust his head down to smell it. His breathing was suddenly stopped and he spluttered and sneezed. His brother and sisters were having the same trouble discovering the nature of water. The edge of the stream was churned by little paws, wet noses and lapping tongues.

  Procyon looked at his mother. She was standing in the shallows, arched to keep her belly out of the water. Through the clear spring water he could see her feet prodding the pebbles and stones. Procyon walked into the water just far enough to wet all four feet, and without taking his eyes from his teacher, probed and turned over the pebbles. He became excited. Tucked between the stones he had found an intriguing article. It felt like a leaf, but the bubbles that left it and rose to break on the surface had an odor quite different than the leaves he knew. Hastily Procyon clutched this new object, first in his forepaws and then in his teeth. He dragged it onto the shore and felt it again. Out in the air the scent was fishy and muddy. With his feet and nose he learned his sense of touch was correct.

  It was a leaf—a dead water-logged leaf. Its odor was a smell he was to live with almost constantly—the aroma of vegetation rotting in the muds and sands of the streams.

  His mother smelled her son’s find from a distance and came over to him. Standing in the same spot in which he had been, she probed the stream bed and brought up the larvae of a caddice fly. She gave it to Procyon. He wondered why she had given him this. He dropped it, trotted off, and backed up to it again. Then, as he rolled it between his fingers, he felt the larvae wiggle within its leaf-covered case. He took it in his teeth and bit it suspiciously. It was sweet. He rolled it in his hands furiously until the larvae and its sheath parted. Then he ate the mashed food. Eagerly he grabbed for more without hunting. Handfuls of mud went down him. Some minute organisms together with grit and dirt slushed into his stomach. Still crunching the granules of sand he galloped to the shore, tackled a sister and sat down on his haunches to watch his mother.

  The m
other coon was hunting the swift rapids, turning over stones and quickly grabbing prey. She made a successful plunge with her hands and came to the shore to drop a crayfish before her cubs. They all touched it, investigated its claws and broad tail. Then a sister took it up and crunched it.

  Procyon was angry with his sister for eating this interesting creature and snapped at her lips with a snort. Then he went off to find his own food. When he had waddled six feet up the beach, the sand ended and the bank of the stream rose high above his head. It was webbed with roots that formed passages and trails. Sniffing his way forward, the little coon went in and out the knitted bank, exploring with his hands and nose. One passage took him around the bend of the stream to another beach of sand and silt. He jumped onto the sand and ran the length of the wash. It ended at an elm root. He scrambled over this and was around a second bend. Procyon’s gallop changed to a slow walk for he had a sense of being far away from his mother. Suddenly he wanted to climb a tree for he was smelling a musty scent.

  Alustela, the mink, had walked this trail less than an hour ago. She was not far up the stream diving into the deep pool for minnows. Procyon turned back to the root of the elm, hoping his mother would be there. She was not. He galloped across the beach, past the dark cliff of roots and tumbled onto the sands where his mother and brother and sisters had been hunting. But there was no one there. The little coon touched their empty footsteps and cried aloud. The musty scent of the mink seemed stronger. Terrified, Procyon started up the nearest tree, a stubby basswood that had been topped by a storm.

  As he reached the stubbed top a little flying squirrel popped out of a hole, struck at Procyon and disappeared back into her den. The young raccoon forgot his fears and reached in the cavity. Four chisel-like teeth sank into his paw and Procyon drew back. The squirrel scolded him and dashed out on a limb by his face, then sprang back to her hollow. She did not appear again and Procyon climbed into the green foliage.