About four years ago on this day – okay, exactly four years ago to this day – when I was roused from my night nap at roughly 3 am by what sounded like a castrati spider monkey choir dueling a howler monkey a cappella start up on my balcony, I realized that something was amiss.
Luckily for me, it was only the neighborhood raccoons hosting an underground cage fight to the death-ish.
After a moment, deafening silence took over. This was strange.
Perturbed and with interest piqued, I sauntered over in my luxurious and imaginary night attire, which, for the record, clearly accentuates all my curves, and drew back the balcony curtain.
And there, in all his lazy glory, was Roncy the Racoon (either II through IV, definitely not I or V) sleeping.
If sleeping during the night isn’t considered time theft for a nocturnal beast, I don’t know what is.
This wasn’t right. The balance of nature was tipped towards the unnatural. I had to take action and restore the natural order. So I scared the lazy ass back to work by flailing my arms and throwing my legs askew while hopping to and fro, grunting and growling my displeasure.
Good thing I had turned the lights on prior to this.
And you’re welcome neighbours.