It’ll be concealed inside of your trashcan, where it will be devouring the corpse of a squirrel that was unfortunate enough to die several days ago and has been rotting inside of a bad of Funyuns for the interim period.
You’ll happen upon it when you take out the trash and it leaps upon your face, startled by your intrusion into its makeshift home. It’ll dig its raccoony claws into your flesh and lash upon your eyes with its tiny, sharp fangs.
You’ll fall to the ground, crying out in pain as the raccoon savages you, trying to reason with it. But your attempts to do so will come out as half formed sentences and moans of pain rather than the thoughtful arguments about what home really means that you hoped to serenade your onetime companion with.
Luckily the raccoon will have a conditioned response to this sort of thing: he’ll start urinating uncontrollably, which will in turn make him calm. Calm enough to be removed from your face and carried under your arm like a stinky little parcel of love.
When you return to the dinner table with the raccoon under your arm your wife’s face will light up.
“Thank god, you found Jeffery!” she’ll exclaim, standing up from her chair so violently that it’ll fly backwards into a wall and shatter. Then she’ll get up and fawn over the little scamp, and to a lesser extent your wounds, before the two of you go upstairs and put Jeffery next to your sleeping infant son, where he belongs.
Congratulations on Finding the Raccoon!
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