Raccoons are fascinating and exasperating — too intelligent for their own good —canny as a cat burglar. One got in our house.

Our house is on the National Register of Historic Places so it’s old, 169 years. It deserves a little respect for such longevity, but at least one raccoon is historically undereducated.

Our masked invader rambled through every room in the house knocking over glassware, tearing wallpaper, digging into plaster and chewing through our TV antenna cable (I suppose he wasn’t smart enough to operate the clicker).

The glassware he broke was no big deal. My sister Gloria is too smart to put anything of value where kids, brothers or raccoons can knock them over. Kudos to her!

It got in through a hole in the bottom of the fireplace in Mama’s and Daddy’s room. There hasn’t been a fire in that room since a gas heater replaced firewood back in the ‘50s. I’m glad I didn’t try to build a fire — it might have singed the rings off that raccoon’s tail.

When Mr. R got to Gloria’s room it tried to claw a new exit. It tore through Mama’s beautiful wallpaper and dug a huge hole into the plaster; however, the four-bricksthick wall proved to be too challenging. I hope he broke a fingernail or two.

He finally escaped through a vent register into our HVAC ducts, which are designed for escaping raccoons. He busted through that duct in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail and skedaddled right on out of there.

Oops, I should not have designated the raccoon as a “he.” I’m sure a mama raccoon would be just as accomplished as any male (maybe more) at creating havoc.

If I could’ve caught the rascal, I might have turned her into a coonskin cap, like Davy Crockett’s. I’ve read that the real David Crockett never wore raccoonish headwear and didn’t go by “Davy.”

Maybe Walt Disney thought Fess Parker would be more impressive with a bushy tail tickling his/her neck. In my younger years wearing a coonskin cap made me think I was a warrior and woodsman like Davy — no matter that it was made from plastic and I should have called him “David.”

If I were the real David Crockett, I’d get out my long rifle and me and my dog (my dog and I?) would hunt that masked marauder until she/he ran up a tree. No, I wouldn’t shoot him/her. First, I would patiently explain to her/him that it is better to give than receive (a bullet). Then, I would demonstrate the concept.

—Gill, an Elk Valley Times columnist, is also an author. His latest book Solomon can be found on Amazon and other online book websites, as well as in stores in Fayetteville and Petersburg.