Wyzard's Wyld Euphorium

The Crone, the Coop, and the Masked Matriarch
Part 1 of “The Raccoon in the Rafters”

When we bought our 1908 Victorian home for fifteen grand, folks looked at us like we were either brave or completely off our rocker. And maybe we were both. She’d been long abandoned—not just neglected, but truly abandoned. By people, anyway. Turns out, someone else had taken up residence.

And when I say someone, I mean a raccoon. Possibly a whole damn lineage of them.

The entire upstairs had been turned into a raccoon nightclub-slash-bathroom. My poor husband spent two full days shoveling poop like he was cleaning out some ancient crypt that’d been cursed by the gods of critter chaos. No raccoons in sight by the time we moved in—but the vibes? Oh, they lingered.

We were starting over. Not a lot of money, walls literally falling down around us, and the world outside? Burning. Fake pandemics, riots, lies stacked on top of lies. The veil was lifting and all hell was doing the cha-cha. All I wanted was some self-sufficiency—a place to plant my garden, get some chickens, and hunker down while the world lost its mind.

So with next to nothing, I designed a chicken coop right on the back porch. We used what we had: old dresser drawers for nest boxes, scrap wire, a few stubborn prayers, and a whole lotta determination. I told my husband, “Wire it in. Ceiling and all. I don’t trust anything with thumbs.”

It worked. Until that one morning.

5 a.m. Rooster alarm call. My bedroom’s on the corner closest to the coop. I didn’t even hesitate—barefoot and still half asleep, I flung open the back door.

And that’s when I heard it.

The loudest, deepest, most guttural growl I’ve ever heard. I thought Missouri had grown a bear overnight. My soul momentarily left my body. I spun so fast trying to get back inside that I’m pretty sure I fractured a toe. Later I found out it wasn’t a bear—it was a six-week-old raccoon toddler who’d fallen through my back porch ceiling and was apparently auditioning for “Wild Kingdom: Possession Edition.”

Once I could breathe again, I scooped the little growler up, placed him somewhere safe, and hoped Mama would come for him. Then I did something possibly foolish—or maybe sacred. I went upstairs, stood in the wreckage, and spoke aloud.

“Mrs. Raccoon,” I said, “I know this was your home before it was mine. I’m not trying to evict you. All I ask is this: you leave my chickens and eggs alone, and I’ll leave you and your babies alone.”

Now, I don’t know if she heard me in the way we think of hearing, but I felt a deal was made.

That was four years ago.

And every single spring since, Mrs. Raccoon returns. She gives birth in my attic. She doesn’t touch a single egg. Never once has she harmed a hen. No missing chicks, no signs of a raid. Just a few extra holes in the upstairs sheetrock—which honestly needs to come down anyway.

I keep the back staircase blocked off at night. Bells hang on the doors like any good witch’s home. My pantry and chicken feed are in that room too, so I know she’s been down now and then—caught her more than once mid-tiptoe, halfway back up the stairs. But she never steals. Never destroys. Just… passes through.

And then there are those rare nights—like last night—when I catch a glimpse of her. She pauses. Looks right at me. Nods.

And I nod back.

We see each other. That’s the agreement. That’s the magic.

I may not have a finished ceiling or polished floors, but I have a pact with a wild mother who could have wrecked my homestead but chose respect instead. And in a world where so many are breaking sacred contracts, I’ll hold tight to this one.

Because sometimes, survival isn’t about domination—it’s about diplomacy.

And sometimes the best roommate you can have… is a raccoon

To be continued…….