Last night we were sitting around in the living room, preparing for me to run a little Exalted for Rock Star and Matt, when there was a big clatter outside on the deck. We looked around, confused, and heard footsteps on the wood, more noises, perhaps even a scrabbling at the glass door.

“Is that the refrigerator?” asked Matt, as the fridge often makes strange sounds when ice is being made.

“No, that sounds like a person,” said Rock Star definitely.

Now, I have recurring bad dreams about burglars. Either they get into my house, and I am terrified, or I somehow kill them and feel dreadfully bad about their deaths. In either case, there is often a moment when I know they are there, behind a window, and I must pull aside a curtain and see for myself. I have to do this. It is necessary. I am forced to do it. Compelled by the inexorable spin of the universe towards its inevitable conclusion. And now, here it is. That moment. The disgustingly country mint green curtains wave against the glass door, concealing what must be revealed.

“Er,” I said, “can one of you not-fraidy-cats go get the curtain?”

So up leapt Rock Star and pulled back the curtain. There was a sound of scuffle and retreat, but I saw nothing. He flipped on the outdoor light, and peered out into the darkness. Perhaps he was gone, over the fences and away. Of course he was - why would he stay when he was discovered. I would never know, and always fear, and - “It’s a raccoon!” laughed Rock Star.

And indeed it was. Black gleaming eyes peered over the side of our deck at us, bravely defying us to shoo him further. Of course I could not. Such a cunning little plantigrade miscreant he was. And all he had done was knock down an empty metal planter. We all stared at him, and he at us, and at last he retreated into the night, convinced, I suppose, that we were not among those rare humans that would give him food. And I went off to make sure the trash can was firmly balanced at the curb.