here,there & elsewhere. Kookie capers

Bins is determined to keep Kookie, the baby raccoon. “I will never let him go! He is my sacred responsibility now! The Universe led him to me! It would be perverse! Unkind!” Kookie is greyish brown, furry and rounded, with a bushy, striped tail. His head is large for the small body and has the characteristic black mask across his eyes that makes all raccoons look like cartoon bandits. He is fast asleep in Bins’ arms, his little black paws folded neatly across his noticeably full, pink belly.

I shake my head wearily. We CAN’T keep him, I say. He’s considered a wild animal. We’d need a permit to keep a wild animal as a pet in the US. “Pooh! This country has TOO MANY LAWS,” scoffs Bins. “In Pondicherry I had monkeys, squirrels, crows...” I remind him that we are not currently in Pondicherry. Then I tell him there’s secondary reason: pets and children are not allowed to live in this building. It’s one of the conditions of my tenancy.

“Ah!” Bins looks triumphant. “He is NOT a pet! He’s a wild animal — you told me just now!” I assure him that this line of reasoning will not impress anyone. “I will take him to see Madame Rose, the landlady,” declares Bins, smiling down at his cuddly bundle with the expression of a besotted Madonna. “One look at his liddle-widdle nose and she will melt!” And that’s another thing, I say. Adult raccoons are known to bite and scratch when they’re cornered. They’re completely unafraid of humans, they raid the garbage and are known to spread rabies. Most Americans hate ’em. If you take him to Mrs Rose she’ll have him exterminated at once.

“Ohh! Cruel, cruel humans!” says Bins hugging the furry critter to his breast. Kookie utters a sleepy squeak before pooping generously all over Bins’ white tee-shirt. The poop is bright blue in colour. OH NO, I wail. He’s been eating my paints! “Your fault for leaving the tubes open!” howls Bins. “You’re trying to poison my Kookie!” Just then there’s a knock on the door. It’s the landlady’s tall handsome Norse God son, whom I have nicknamed Thor. “Oh, hi,” he says, when I open the door. “The fire department guys are planning to install alarms. May we come in?” Of course, I say.

Two burly men and Thor troop inside. Bins is standing at the far end of the main room covered in blue poop, with a backpack clutched to his chest. I make introductions in a loud, hearty voice, in order to mask the faint squeaks I can hear from the backpack. Fortunately, the fire department guys are only interested in finding a good place for their fire alarms. They notice neither the poop-smells nor the blue paw prints all over the studio, which is where they want to place the main alarm. They give me a date for the installation and leave.

“Foof!” sighs Bins in relief. Kookie tumbles out of the backpack, fully awake now. He’s covered in his own blue poop. “Yummy paint,” he squeaks. “Want more!”

( Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

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