When I lived in Berkeley, raccoons were a bane of my existence. They crept through the cat flap at night and ransacked the breadbin. They terrorised our pets. They crossed the road unpredictably, eyes shining like stars in the headlight beam. Nonetheless, when I moved to England, I missed their striped cheekiness. They are pests here in Toronto ('Raccoon problems? Call 416-______'). But when I saw my first Canadian one the other night, a shaggy fellow who zigzagged unexpectedly in front of my car, I felt a sense of homecoming. Silly of me. True, though.
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