This Day to Night

2023.06.06

By 7:23 a.m., a raccoon bit me thrice. 

I’ve eclipsed a six hour wait at the emergency ward of North York ‘Gen Hospital.

On my hand, micro impressions of sharp pointed teeth, and the “Green Zone” doctors can’t reach anyone at the Toronto Public Health line. 

Marc, my Green Zone liaison, informs me that rabies vaccines are in short supply—

And Toronto Public Health, the sole distributor of that short supply—

Is supremely short-staffed.

When you build on ravine properties—

You deal with the animals. 

When they get inside—

They’ve gotta get out. 

Using a can of light tuna as bait—

Overnight, I passively captured a trash panda up in the attic—

Which had been tormenting me for a week, tipping the trash bin inside site, each every night—

But by this morning, this raccoon was safely contained in a Havahart trap.

Simply put, that device—

It’s a cage with an open spring loaded door at the front, and when a raccoon enters to take the food bait inside, its weight presses down on a platform, which promptly locks and closes the door of its entry.

It took three tries on three separate nights—

Largely because—

This tricky trash panda, it kept stealing the food, still without triggering the trap.

The first time it happened, I only thought—

Clever girl.

Then, two times more—

I pictured Mission Impossible, in trash panda form. 

But then—

Finally—

The bugger got caught. 

Seeing it at 6:48 a.m., calm, quiet, chill in the trap—

We eyed each other—

It being cute—

Me with a coffee— 

I almost got caught in the feels—

But before I could, I donned some gloves—

And matter-of-factly moved the whole trap—

Trash panda included—

Swiftly outside.

Mission Control:

Mission ACCOMPLISHED.

Call it a duty:

Call it a CALLING.

Placing the trap on the ground, I head back inside for my keys—

Preparing to release the caught critter a few blocks away, after a short little drive—

And then—

Inside—

Beside where I set the first trap—

Movement. 

Rustling.

Using my phone camera to zoom— 

At first glance, looking like a 4 inch thick, black plumbing pipe—

But then the pipe turned its head—

And I’m staring at a baby raccoon, and this baby raccoon stares right back.

In my head…

Fuck.

I knew I was fucked.

I couldn’t leave him—

‘Cuz at his size—

Like an undersized light loaf of bread—

If I baited the trap once more tonight—

His weight wouldn’t trigger the spring loaded action—

And my gloves were still on—

So simply, I said—

“If you’re smooth, it’ll go smooth—”

“And yeah, you’ll likely get bit—“

“But this could be your ‘Lose Yourself’ one shot at eviction—”

“And hell, there’s no way you DIE.”

Just then, once that baby got back—

Back with its back turned around—

As gently as possible—

I scooped it up. 

First, having picked it up from behind—

I was safely set in his blindspot—

And initially, he only star-fished.

That moment, I froze—

Raised in the air, I couldn’t believe he was calm—

Then, my slow steps to the door—

Made him question when he learned how to fly—

And his head turned around—

We made eye contact again—

He fully freaked out—

And pissed as a missile, he chomped my hand with his fiercest raccoon baby bite.

Did it hurt?

Well, if I weren’t wearing gloves—

It would’ve hurt worse—

But when you’re clutching a hissing baby raccoon—

You lack the luxury of assessing the damage.

Before he could bite me again—

Instinctively, I set him down—

Gently—

Like a catch and release fish—

Plopped from the boat back into the lake—

And by doing that, for sure, I bamboozled the hell out of him—

Because he sat there—

Back turned and stunned—

And then I remembered—

MOTHERFUCKER, HE’S STILL STUCK INSIDE!!!

When I grabbed him again—

He was wise to my ways—

And bit again as I picked him up—

Then even more while being bounced from the house.

Holding him far and away from my face, lest he launch at my neck—

Then, outside and clear from the site, I plop him back down—

And he scurries a few feet away—

Now, for scale, peeking out from behind a clear plastic bottle of water, coincidentally upright and stationed nearby. 

Once I released his mother, they leave in peace—

Then, removing my glove, I check out my hand—

——————

Then I check in at my doctor’s. 

“Yes, hi, I’m a patient here, I don’t have an appointment, but a raccoon bit my hand a whole lot—“

Staring blankly at me, the receptionist sees what I am—

Sincere and seeking true help—

And she clinically says:

“You need a rabies vaccine. Go to ‘emerg at the hospital.”

——————

From emergency triage, I’m directed towards the Green Zone of the hospital. 

They can’t tell for certain if the bites broke the skin, but the impressions are deep enough that it’s worth being cautious.

During my waiting room wait—

A steady procession, parents rushing in kids wounded by today’s recess injuries, and in my mind, I’m outing the ones milking it for the free day from school.

The kid who “tripped” and fell “face-first” into concrete—

He seems legit—

There’s now a dent in his forehead, and he’s either headed to surgery for frontal bone cranial fracture, or straight to fame as a great make-up artist—

But the young girl to my left—

Elbow on ice—

Slouched sideways like soon she’ll faint-

Her mom 20 minutes too deep in a talk with the flirty, busted foot Trinidadian man who sat down beside her—

And bless the man, he’s making progress—

I can’t help but smile when the nurse calls my name—

And I refrain from telling the young girl to stay strong—

After all, her arm might be broken—

But physical pain, I’ll let it distract her, numbing the torture of this psychologically awkward new scar. 

——————

Mercifully, I’m attended by doctors.

They ask how it happened—

And before I respond—

One offers up—

“Gardening?”

………….

Of course. 

Spot on.

Bit while I was gardening.

In this city—

In this economy—

By my white picket fence—

As our affordable housing reality becomes communal commitment to fake member cards for entry slash eligibility to five finger discounts from the ‘TENT’ aisle at Costco—

I was bit gardening.

——————

As doctors explain my prognosis—

They mention typically, the vaccine takes time to arrive.

Naively, I wonder aloud—

“Like what, an hour?”

Dead-pan—

And recognizing I’m in precisely no pain at all—

A terse doctor says—

“No. HOURS.“

Internally, I question when the healing begins, because all of a sudden—

This newest wound feels the most savage. 

——————

On my phone, making calls from my waiting room office—

I’m coordinating as best as I can from off-site.

Before I left—

I put the right people in charge—

And told them I’d return in short order.

If I stopped answering calls—

I trust within minutes—

They’d frame a new window opening—

Perched with a view of the sea—

Where, like lamenting fishwives they’d gather—

And watch ocean waves—

Wondering when winds would shift to bring me back home.

——————

At two—

Marc, my Green Zone liaison, informs me that rabies vaccines are in short supply—

And Toronto Public Health, the sole distributor of that short supply—

Is supremely short-staffed.

As of yet, they haven’t reached anyone at the Public Health line.

With respect—

I thank him for keeping me in the loop.

I’m being patient and the staff seem unnerved and skeptically cautious.

——————

Two hours pass—

I’m in the PREMIUM waiting room seat—

Head-on, direct view of the TV—

CBC re-running marathons of “Escape to the Country”.

Doris and Michael desire an open-concept interior, and in Norfolk, they’re being shown a quaintly converted barn house with a garden—

Just then, a nurse calls my name—

“Matthew?”

“Yes?”

Instinctively, I’m looking up—

Then, across the whole room she announces—

“A few hours more, but the vaccine’s on the way.”

Seated in my central position—

All eyes on me—

And I hear every thought—

“Did she say vaccine…?”

“Wait, is he CONTAGIOUS?!”

“GOOD GOD, PLEASE GOD HELP US ALL”

Nonchalant, I focus back on the TV—

Back on Escape to the Country—

Say nothing else—

And pretend they must’ve meant some other Matthew.

In my peripheral, total tension, everyone slinks in their seats slowly further away.

——————

Approaching a ten hour wait—

Finally, I’m called in for my shot. 

On the phone with my boss, I’ve just explained how to lock site.

Way back this morning, I thought this vaccine would be a quick prick and I’m out—

But by now, all I’ve eaten is a Tim’s BLT and a coffee—

And I’m concerned I’m delirious, so I have to ask—

“Sorry, could you please repeat that?”

Nurse JoJo repeats the requirements.

One deltoid injection—

She points to her arm—

Four in the abdomen—

She points to four spots on her stomach—

Then also multiple injections in the spot of the bite.

I look at my hand—

I look at nurse JoJo—

I look at the ground—

I sigh—

Then I roll up my sleeve.

Deltoid goes normal, no problem.

Then, I remove my shirt and lay back.

Picture my six-pack, glistening in perfect light—

Still to be purchased, still in the refrigerator of a near LCBO.

That’s how I distract myself as JoJo warns me not to tense up.

Full disclosure—

Needles don’t bother me—

But abdominal needles did stretch the limit of what I could stomach.

After that, I start to sit up, ready for the shots in the hand—

But JoJo still says sit back, because these next ones for sure hurt the worst. 

The bite itself—

On top of my hand—

Across my right thumb—

Extending along the meaty bridge to my index finger—

I warn JoJo politely—

“If I say FUCK, it’s not about you”.

From there, JoJo did work—

I never said FUCK—

And we got it all done. 

——————

On the way home, I stop by the site. 

I check if it’s locked—

Then check inside to assess what work got done.

3 days, then 7 days, then 14 days from first bite—

I’ll require follow-up shots on each one—

But now—

Site being secure—

I start checking out—

And can’t help but note what might make my night.

There’s an unnumbered draft—

In an unclosing folder—

And it’s well on the way to being all right.

Last item left—

I check if the trash is tipped over—

And confirming it’s not—

I lock up and head home—

Admire the wildlife photography taken on site—

Then clock in as normal and dig in to write.

From This Day to Night,

Good morning, good day, and good night.

Wildlife Photography

(All models featured are real people, not actors)