As jimg and I sat on the stoop after a customary Monday-evening repast of the deep-fried wings and rings, we saw a passel of ring-tailed raccoons run past, bold as brass. The leaders twain scurried up the fence separating our building from the corner realtor, and along the shoulder-height rail until they reached the back of the property. There they amazingly scrambled straight up a lattice-work wooden fence, and into the garden behind us. A third followed the two, and another pair hesitated in the narrow, ill-lit space between the two building across the street before running through traffic and following the others. I was amazed and horrified: the two biggest were about 20kilos, and fearless. I wanted to follow them and discover their disgusting lair, but the prospect of rabies held me back.
UPDATE: Our next-door neighbour, Nancy, reports that a grand total of six raccoons live in her yard. She introduced herself to us by way of saying, "If you hear someone banging on a pie-pan with a flashlight around ten o'clock at night, do'n't call the police." Her intrepid dog, which any of the raccoons could devour without swallowing twice, thinks that he will attack them. Should we call Animal Control or some similar urban pest-eradication group? I recall the night six years ago, when I heard two of them bullying a third to the point of tears -- the terrified screams of the smallest, hanging desperately off the roof of an adjacent building, woke me from sleep. I watched the two bigger raccoons bullying their playmate for several minutes, until they apparently lost interest and wandered away. There was no splattered coonskin on the pavement the next morning, so I guess that the third one somehow hauled himself to safety.