Their little, nimble, probing hands (another NOT sexy post)

I hate moving.

Moving boxes this weekend (at least that is the plan.)

Rockin' my whole little world-- and it was already shaky.

We are selling the lovely city house to the long-term tenant, within the month. From now on my family shall be solely, squarely, stolidly living only here, in the Middle of Hell.

No more fantasy escape house.

This is cool. I am okay with it.

Really.

Except for the moving boxes.

There are so many boxes that need moving. Boxes that have not been touched for many years. Boxes filled with unresolved issues that are moving me to tears. Most are not even my boxes. Other people abandoned boxes stuffed with wanton wastefulness, with benign neglect.

Immobility boxes.

Boxes that were packed by my in-laws in the 1960s, when they reluctantly yet permanently relocated to their "summer" house. Boxes that were packed by my husband in the 1970s, when his first marriage disintegrated. Boxes that were packed by yours truly, in the 1980s, when I was trying to scrape away a bit of "shared" space in my now-husband's even-then crowded living quarters. Boxes from the early '90s, when my mother-in-law moved from two, conjoined apartments into one assisted-care room and then, soon after, from that into a full-fledged nursing home room.

Somehow all of these boxes, stuffed with unresolved conflicts, issues, and indecisions, are coming home to roost.

Here. In the middle of, well, you know.

Amazing, that they didn't poof go away or abracadabra magically resolve. Nope. Just clung persistently, patiently gathering dust.

These are not tidy boxes, their labels are misleading or dead-wrong. There are also metal storage closets and long, fiberboard wardrobes and loose items of furniture and strayed bits of clothing and paperwork.

Shameful, how messy it all is... many years of storage have not improved things. Leaks, vermin, time: all have added patina to the boxes. The dust is thick and cobwebby and asbestos-riddled and choking.

Just hoping to hide from that which is unavoidably mine to deal with... mouldering mouton lamb coats, stiff as boards and greened with mildew. The creepy, ruined monkey-fur hat and matching jacket (have marveled and shuddered at those special items before! I do believe they were created out of Colobus monkeys, well before anyone had a clue about "endangered species"). Assorted scrambled cartons, mixing up coats, shoes, dishes, books, bills, letters, photographs.

Sometimes discovering lovely, Victorian photographs of mysterious people, perhaps distant and oh-so-long-ago relations to my beloved husband and children? For example: found in a c1932 "Meats of Indiana Cookbook" :
(huh? as if Indiana once had some sort of unique meats not found in the rest of the USA?)
a crumbling, red leather wallet stuffed with photos of big-eyed 1880s and '90s poppets. Twirly curls, fancy dress, cute baby faces. Thick, lovely paper -- these are sturdy photographs, meant to be saved and cherished. Tiny, indecipherable scrawls on the back, telling who they were... a massive investigation might yield some clues.

What would YOU do?

What to do with such a treasure?

a) to the trash, don't look back

b) hide in the enormous accomodating cabinet, with millions of other baby photos (circa 1994 and 1998 of my own darlings) -- gawdawful mess, that!

c) whisk off for framing in some sort of arty Martha-Stewartish shadowbox and then hang in the mudroom as a "conversation piece"?

The kids are pretty, the photos are in great shape. I just have no clue who they are... or why to save them. Except, like my own mess of baby photos, these babies were somebody's beloveds. Jeepers, my ghost would be kinda sad, I think, if someone else perused and then callously tossed out photos of pretty baby C. in her floppy, floral sun hat, of handsome little H. riding on his German wooden train engine with big rubber wheels.

Maybe I am just all fucked up?

Everybody has beautiful babies.

Really.

Babies are the most gorgeous creatures in the world.

Baby snakes, baby warthogs, baby rats, baby spiders, baby rhinoceros. Name your ugliest adult creature -- betcha I can find you an image of their babies that will make you go "Awwww."

Cute Overload is misguided in their odd-ball attention to preternaturally cute hamsters and Pomeranians...

On the other hand, raccoons have unusually appealing offspring. Go on and try to find an image of an ugly baby raccoon. There are NONE. Check out the picture, above and left. Shiny black eyes, shiny black noses, shiny black masks. Gorgeous!

Amazingly cute baby raccoons have become a stumbling block.

For me. In moving boxes. There are too many boxes full of raccoons blocking the doorway.

You see, the long-term tenant has a pet cat. A feral, damaged cat she found and nursed back to health. A tiny, 5 pound cat who thinks it is a ferocious wild tiger and must go hunting outside every night.

So the tenant has been persistent in her desire for a cat-flap, to allow the semi-feral cat to come and go as it pleases... We always said NO. No, no, no. Cat-flaps allow other cats and other vermin in to wreak havoc. No cat-flap. But when it was only one, very nice and likable tenant, renting both apartments in what had always been a 2-unit... and her fierce little tiger-cat was kinda cute too... we weakened. She put in the cat door.

Guess who came knocking and then just bowled their way in???

Raccoons! Yeah, the scariest and most aggressive of all urban wildlife. Animals that make themselves at home but are really hard to live with.

So, the renter hired a trapper, who came with traps and bait. Marshmallows and maple syrup are good bait for catching raccoons and NOT catching cats.

Anyhow, last night's haul: four tiny raccoons. Two babies in one trap, then one baby each in two other traps. Leaving one raccoon mama rattling about the backyard in a state of maternal panic.

The trapped babies are just outside the back door, which leads to the cellar where all of the immobile moving boxes are stuck. I do not wish to further scare the babies or add to the mother's distress. I also just really want to get this weekend of hellish moving over with... what a dilemma.

Oh crud. This post was supposed to keep going a while then wrap up with some sort of conclusion. Not going to happen. But I have posted raccoon themed blog-rants in the past, one of which featured this still funny and still excellent cartoon, from the scarily-reliably amusing Dinosaur Comics, which totally explains this post's title.

p.s. oh boy. Nice thread of cartoons involving raccoons and giant marine cephalopods over at Dinosaur comics. Eerie how much this strip mirrors my interests.