The Trouble with Raccoons

The next morning, Boss Otter gathered his clan beside the river.

He had spent the entire night perfecting his strategy.

He had also spent an unfortunate amount of time trying to get the trousers off his head.

"Today," he declared, "we begin reconnaissance."

"What does that mean?" asked Squeak.

"It means we look at the place before we do anything foolish."

"Oh," said Pip. "We do that all the time."

Boss pointed toward the hatchery.

"Precisely."

The clan set off through the woods.

Mabel carried a pair of binoculars.

Pip carried a sack of acorns.

Squeak carried a wooden spoon.

Grandpa Gus carried a sandwich.

Willa carried the map because nobody trusted Boss not to turn it upside down again.

They had almost reached the old willow tree when Mabel suddenly stopped.

"Someone's been here."

She pointed toward the muddy ground.

Footprints.

Small, rounded footprints.

And they were everywhere.

Boss crouched low.

"Raccoons."

Willa examined the tracks.

"How can you tell?"

"Look at the shape," Boss whispered. "Five little toes. Classic raccoon work."

Grandpa Gus chewed thoughtfully.

"Could be squirrels."

"Raccoons," Boss insisted.

"Could be very large squirrels."

Boss glared at him.

Then something rustled in the bushes.

The clan dove behind a fallen log.

Out stepped five raccoons wearing matching dark vests.

Their leader was a broad-shouldered fellow with a black mask of fur around his eyes and a smile that suggested he'd never met a locked box he couldn't open.

Rocco Raccoon.

He held a rolled-up map beneath one arm.

Boss Otter's eyes widened.

"They're planning a heist!"

Willa whispered, "How do you know?"

"Because they're wearing vests."

"That's not proof."

"Nobody wears matching vests for a pleasant afternoon stroll."

Rocco spread his map across a stump.

"Listen up," he told his gang. "The hatchery caretaker leaves at sundown. The heron guard takes his evening patrol at moonrise. We move after that."

One raccoon raised a paw.

"What if the otters get there first?"

Rocco laughed.

"The otters? Those soggy little amateurs couldn't organize a picnic without eating the invitations."

Behind the log, Pip gasped.

Squeak clenched his wooden spoon.

Mabel looked at Boss.

Boss looked at Mabel.

Grandpa Gus took another bite of his sandwich.

"Well," he murmured, "I do believe we've been insulted."

Boss stood up.

"That's it. This is personal."

Willa grabbed his tail and pulled him back down.

"Papa! We can't just charge at them!"

"Why not?"

"Because there are five of them."

Boss counted the raccoons.

Then he counted his own clan.

Then he counted the raccoons again.

"Hmm."

"And," Willa continued, "they might actually know what they're doing."

Boss looked offended.

"Now that's just rude."

The clan watched as the raccoons disappeared into the trees.

Boss slowly unfolded his map.

"We need a new plan."

Willa sighed.

"Of course we do."