Bandits!

Bandits! 12 o’clock!
I am apparently under attack. A full-blown herd of raccoons has decided that the most fun thing to do at 1:30 am is scare the living bejesus out of me. Out of nowhere I heard what sounded like some maniac trying to break into the house. I, of course, freaked. Was there someone in the backyard?! No. Silly me. It was simply the normally-most-matronly of female felines hurling herself at the back doors in a pathetic attempt to intimidate the masked marauders milling about the patio. They sat there, peacefully, inches from the glass, with a “Who do you think you’re fooling?” look aimed right at her. It was lovely to know that she is watching over me, protecting me from the vermin of Beverly Hills. But I’ve since illuminated the backyard with the full glare of a half-dozen 100 watt bulbs and the pesky ‘coons aren’t even remotely frightened. Living in the wilds of the Los Angeles hills has acclimated them to society and, much like the median-dwellers of my morning commute, I assume they’re waiting for a handout.
“Be gone!” I yell. “There be no leftovers for ye here!”
It does nothing to deter them. Perhaps if I crawl into bed and turn on ESPN, they will see that I’m not going to toss them any scraps and they’ll leave us be. Here’s hoping …