Raccoon Masterclass: Tree Shaking Great Dane

Would Be Hunters Beware: Mama Coon Showdown

I’ve intimately known more than a few raccoons. On my watch, only one unfortunate cutie of its kind met its demise. It was either kill the rabid raccoon who surprised me on our screen porch and latched itself to my steel toed high top boots while I dragged it inside my kitchen door where a gun lay to shoot it before I could be bitten. Scared as I was, there was no mistaking its unfriendly behavior for anything but rabies. Tests proved I was right.

I am an animal lover through and through, but I’ve lived rural enough to know sometimes animals are food for humans, sometimes they are predators you need to protect other domesticated animals from, and sometimes they are dangerous. This true story took place in rural West Virginia where the community often ate raccoons due to their poverty and hunting beliefs. Even eating road-kill is still legal there and often a source of meat for the freezer.

This is a true story of our Great Dane and her showdown with a Mama Raccoon with 5 babies.

Queen Samantha Of The Chesapeake

When we agreed to rescue an abused Great Dane, we were made aware that she had some idiosyncrasies in terms of her behavior. At first, it seemed the biggest of these personality problems was her paranoia in being left alone. Little did we know how much her quirks would dictate our lives.

She’d been rescued from a physician’s home where she had been crated around-the-clock, devoid of human contact for the most part. She literally couldn’t stand to be alone and would almost go berserk if you left her.

The only time she would tolerate aloneness was being left in the car because she loved to ride. She loved riding in the car so much that you could not under any circumstances leave your car windows down when parked. She’d leap in and be sitting in the driver’s seat waiting for you. It was difficult once she was there to unseat her, despite my many pleas reminding her that she didn’t have a license to drive.

Living on a heavily wooded farm in rural West Virginia, Queen Samantha (or Queenie, as we called her) soon settled in and became a much beloved member of our family. When I say she was my constant companion, that is no exaggeration. If I walked across the room, she would escort me. Escorting in her mind, also meant she had to be touching you, or leaning against you in some manner.

However, Queenie would leave you in a heart-beat, if she detected in any manner that a raccoon was nearby. You could take her out on a walk away from the house and what she regarded as her“territory.” Mostly, she would ignore raccoons out in the woods, but let one get near our cabin and her family, and it was “shake a coon” time.

While we discouraged this behavior, this also worked for all of us, as the raccoons were a pest when it came to getting into the chicken house. Other predators wouldn’t come near it, as our eight hunting dogs were in a kennel right next to it. Raccoons, however, were quickly smart enough to realize the dogs were penned up and couldn’t get at them.

Queenie was a fawn colored Great Dane, who when standing tall could look my six-foot-seven husband in the eyes. Her method of hunting raccoons was to tree them and stand stretched at the base of the tree, leaping at them, and tormenting them. Heaven help the coon that unwittingly chose a young tree that wasn’t sturdy enough to withstand her shaking the tree. There was never a time when any raccoon got the best of her if it hit the ground.

She knew that sooner or later, that if that raccoon came down that tree she could out-run them and out fight them. She would simply grab them by the back of the neck and with a few vigorous shakes, they were dead. Once a dead raccoon, they held no interest for her. Her job was done and it was time for a drink of water and a nap.

One Summer Night Upon A Raccoon

Our cabin sat on the top of a hill overlooking one of our large ponds and the hollow below. It was a late Friday night when everyone, human and non-human, settled in for the night. We soon noticed that the hair on the back of Queenie’s neck was standing up, and she was staring intently outside.

Soon, her suspicions were confirmed when the country alarm system — our domestic Toulouse geese — sounded the alarm that something or someone who didn’t belong was outside.

Grabbing his rifle, his railroad lantern, and calling Queenie to his side, Bill went out the door to investigate. I stood watching from the safety of the picture window. Within seconds, Queenie raced to the other side of the pond and stood tall against a tree in full attack mode.

The geese were soon squawking at full volume, the African guineas were sounding their own alarm and running around like crazy, the chickens were cowering in their hen house, and our hunting dogs were beginning a bark-a-thon destined to be heard for miles.

Now certain what we were dealing with, I flipped the switches on at each floodlight mounted in the yard, and our place was lit up like a gaudy Christmas display.

A Old Mamma Coon And Her Babies

Queenie had an old mamma coon and her youngsters treed in a cypress tree that stood half in and half out of the edge of the pond. Bouncing around that tree trunk, she soon was caked in mud and decaying leaf muck.

I watched Bill attempt several times to shoot in the direction of the raccoon down from the tree, but he purposely was only shooting to scare the raccoon down from her perch.

Soon, the new widow living nearest to us (two miles down the hollow) was angrily complaining on our newly installed phone that our dogs were making her dogs bark. An hour later, some of the local men started showing up in their pickups, as word was out thanks to Cherie with the big mouth. Two hours later, it was a regular hunting party in the loosest terms.

Nine men, some standing around at the back of their pickups, others settling in camping chairs circled the tree at a short distance. I didn’t have to go down there to know that money was being placed in a pot on who would win the raccoon vs. dog war.

They weren’t there to shoot the raccoons, guns were just “in case.” I didn’t have to worry about my husband getting cold once I saw Ralph pass out his famous homemade hooch. This was a West Virginia guy’s excuse of a party.

No point in watching the spectacle of soon-to-be drunk hillbilly men, a crazy dog, and a smart raccoon. Earplugs in to muffle the noise of the still barking dogs and the stereo turned up loud — I tried to get some sleep as it was nearing midnight.

Sometime near dawn, I got up when I realized I was still alone in the house. Down on the pond, the dog was laying at the base of the tree still waiting for her prey. Two of the men had given up or given into their wives’ rules and had gone home.

One saner, or the more sober one, was asleep in the cab of his pickup. The others were either napping or passed out with rifles beside or in their laps, perched in camping chairs, completely unaware it was morning — judging by their heads resting on their chests.

That was too funny to resist the temptation of sneaking down the hill to take a picture of. I thought their wives might want to have proof of why they were out all night doing-God-knows-what.

The Shake-A-Thon

Camera in hand, approaching the edge of the pond, I noticed that despite her laying at rest, Queenie was wide awake, eyes still focused above her. The only sounds now were snores and snorts, and that other famous unmentionable free-will scented sound that grown men seem to delight in making when around other men.

Just as I started back to the house, all mayhem and foolishness broke loose. For whatever dumb reason, that mamma coon decided it was time to come down out of the tree. I whirled around to see her in mid-air leaping into the pond with Queenie diving in right behind her.

Apparently, our geese were watching too because their shrieks and the splashing of the dog and raccoon had all the West Virginia men half falling out of their canvas chairs, as they came awake in a hurry. Some, in their hooch hung over inspired alertness, found themselves on the ground tangled in their chairs.

Fifteen year old Ace slid from his chair to the muddy banks of the pond, tried to stand up in his excitement and was now in the water. Fuzz, his father, trying to save his boy, tripped over his own untied boot and landed face down. Kenny was now standing up hollering something his devout Christian wife would have washed his mouth out for outside his pickup.

Easy going Ralph tried to get a scope on the raccoon. My husband just stood quietly watching in his usual nothing-upsets-me fashion. This was soon to change, as the young raccoons who’d been up in the tree all night came scurrying down that tree. They scattered in all directions trying to get away.

It was a comical sight of men and raccoons all running in different directions, with all youngsters escaping safely. Meanwhile, Queenie and old mamma raccoon were having a big time. That Great Dane first almost lost the raccoon, as she was not as fast in the water as the raccoon.

Yet, somehow despite Queenie managing to grab her by a foot and drag her to the muddy shore she too escaped. Soon, a whole lotta shaking did not end the drama of it all.

In the end, the human winners split the pot of cash. Pretty sure they bet on the raccoon. Then, all the men headed down to the local diner in our one- stop-light-town, to tell tales of dogs and raccoons. Queenie and I went back up to the house so we could give her a bath. The gentle couch potato that she was by nature, was so tired she could barely stand, and she was even too tired to eat.

By noon, she and my husband were snoring away on the separate couches in the living room, where they would stay unmoving in tandem hunting dreamland until the next raccoon adventure. — Jerilee Wei © 2023

PS I previously published this story in other publications many years ago.

“Mamma raccoons are the Marie Curie’s of the animal kingdom, outsmarting their would-be foes with a mischievous grin and the fierceness of a mother’s love.” — Jerilee Wei © 2023