It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon in our house. Wilson and I were mid-nap in our room, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing in the kitchen. The gentle hum of the heater and the occasional snore from Wilson were the soundtrack to our lazy day. That is, until London burst into the room.
“She attacked me!” London shouted, her voice a mix of indignation and drama.
Wilson stirred, and I blinked at her, trying to piece together what she was saying.
“Who? What? Attacked?” I mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Gracie!” London exclaimed, clutching at her sweater like a Victorian damsel who’d just survived a duel. “She jumped over the table like a wild raccoon!”
Now, Gracie wasn’t exactly the violent type. But London’s theatrics had me curious.
“What did you do?” I asked, squinting at her suspiciously.
“Me?!” London gasped, the picture of innocence. “Why would you think I did anything?!”
Wilson and I exchanged a glance. We were thinking the same thing: London definitely did something.
At that moment, Gracie appeared in the doorway, glaring at London. “She is a cheat! , we were playing a card game and she cheated !” Gracie declared.
London threw her hands up. “I did not!”
Wilson barked as if to say, Yeah, that tracks.
London looked defiant. “So you thought jumping over the table and tackling me was a reasonable response?”
Gracie crossed her arms. “yep!”
From then on, anytime we saw a raccoon on TV or in a magazine, we would burst out laughing, and Gracie would roll her eyes. It didn’t help that Wilson went out of his way to find raccoon figurines, stickers, and even a plushie to torment her with.
Sure, they bickered like true step-sisters, but deep down, they were each other’s best friend. And we will never look at raccoons the same way again.
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