“Ready for another animal, Anita?” my brother-in-law asked me, setting down a cardboard box inside my doorway. “This baby raccoon needs a mama.”
I pulled back the flap and looked inside. A tiny, masked face peered out. “She was wandering around the brickyard,” he said. “She didn’t even fight when I picked her up.”
I lifted the raccoon out of the box and held her. “Poor little baby.”
“I’ve been calling her Margaret,” my brother-in-law said.
“Margaret…” I cooed to her. Since girlhood I’d taken in animals—cats, dogs, an orphaned lamb, even injured chickens. But this was my first wild animal.
The timing was perfect. I had no one to take care of. My husband, Merle, worked all day, I was on summer break from my job as a school secretary and my daughter Elissa had recently married and moved away. Just yesterday, it seemed, she was my little tomboy.
“Call me if you need anything,” I told her again and again. Elissa hadn’t called yet, and I had to resist the temptation to call her. There were so many things to learn as a new bride!
“A raccoon?” Merle said when he returned home from work. “Next you’ll take in a rat!”
“She’s too weak to be trouble,” I said. “She needs me to care for her.”
“What do baby raccoons eat?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said. I had to. If Margaret didn’t get strong she’d never survive.
I glanced inside my refrigerator and cupboards. Milk, eggs, yogurt, honey and chicken broth. I mixed them and drew some of the homemade formula into an eyedropper. I pressed the tip into Margaret’s mouth.
She closed her eyes as she drank. Then she looked up and softly chattered. I tried to recreate the low, friendly call, like her raccoon mama would.
Margaret had been resting in our home for a week when Elissa called. “I’m cooking dinner, but I have some questions about this lasagna recipe,” she said. “Can you help me?”
Finally, I thought. I walked her through the steps. “Got it,” she said. “Wish me luck!” Elissa was learning her way around the kitchen. My own kitchen was empty—where had Margaret gone? I found her sitting on the living room floor. She rose up on her hind legs as if to say, “Hi!”
Now that she was more active, Margaret was more a toddler than a baby. She explored every nook and cranny and followed me everywhere. She outgrew her formula and developed a sweet tooth, always trying to get treats like cookies.
“Too much people food isn’t good for raccoons,” I told Margaret after she served herself a big helping of cake. “Follow me.” She walked with me into the backyard. I began to turn over stones.
“This is how raccoons look for food,” I told her. “You need to find grubs and worms. Not cake!” She tilted her head at me, and then scurried off.
Summer wore on, and Margaret kept growing. One evening I picked her up for a quick cuddle. She sank her teeth into my hand. “Oww!” I yelled, quickly putting her down.
“She’s getting to be too wild,” Merle said. “She needs a place outside.” He made her a nesting box with a latched door, which we kept open. Margaret came and went as she pleased, returning to the box only to steal a daytime nap before running off to explore the woods.
School started up again in early September, and I only rarely saw my little raccoon—although she was hardly little anymore. God, watch over my Margaret, I prayed, once again finding her nesting box empty one day after school. Keep her safe.
I came inside to a ringing phone. It was Elissa. “Mom,” she said, “I’m supposed to bring the hors d’oeuvres to a party we’ve been invited to, but I have no idea what to make!”
“What are you looking for?” I asked. “Pigs in a blanket? Something fancier?” I grabbed a cookbook and settled in at the kitchen table. Surely this would take a while.
But it turned out Elissa didn’t need that much from me. Once we’d picked a dish she was ready to try it on her own. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “Gotta run!” Soon Elissa would be an old hand at hors d’oeuvres.
It’s nice to talk to her for any reason, I thought. As I hung up I wished Margaret could call me and let me know how she was doing. She’s climbing a tree or digging in the soil. Acting like an adult raccoon.
Several days later I checked the nesting box again. Margaret was there, but something was wrong. Wounds marred her face and throat, and her coat was caked with mud. “Margaret, what happened?”
Hearing her name, she held out an injured paw. I carried her inside. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I told her as I set her in her old cardboard box and prepared her formula.
“Poor Margaret,” Merle said, watching me feed her. “I bet it was a bigger raccoon. They don’t like strangers on their turf. That’s a lesson Margaret probably never learned, being here.”
“This has always been her turf,” I said, stroking her fur. She was safe here. Life is too hard in the wild.
Every day I rushed home to her after work, and tended to her just like I did when she was a baby. Each day she grew stronger. I returned her to her nesting box and latched the door shut to keep her safe inside.
Early one evening, the air crisp with autumn chill, I went out to check on Margaret. As I approached, she extended a paw through the fencing. Her big black eyes pleaded with mine, her message clear. Please let me go.
But she didn’t know about the dangers out there. What if she met another raccoon? Or didn’t find enough food? Or got hurt? She was safer in her nesting box. Safer, but not happier. I reached for the latch and opened the cage door. Margaret scurried out and limped into the thicket. She never looked back.
You couldn’t keep her forever, I reminded myself, blinking back tears. God gives us our babies so they can learn to be free.
I slowly walked back inside to my quiet home. In our hallway, I passed one of Elissa’s wedding photos. She looked so happy. Radiant. Strong. You raised her to be strong, I told myself. So she could take care of herself. And she knows she has you if she needs help. Just like Margaret.
Years have passed since I last saw my raccoon. I know she’s okay, because she’s living the way God intended her to—out on her own, experiencing the world. She broke away from what was familiar and started her own life.
Perhaps somewhere deep in her memory there stir dim visions of the humans who loved her when she was a baby, and who were there for her in her time of need. And my other baby? Elissa is now a mom herself, learning the lessons of letting go that God sent a furry angel to teach me.
