Monsters in masks

Ms. Rella had finished shredding old documents.  I volunteered to take the garbage bag full of shredded paper to the dumpster behind the building.

When I lifted the dumpster’s lid, I found myself staring into the eyes of the biggest raccoon I’d ever seen.  I’d always thought of them as cute little thieves wearing masks.  This one might have been the devil’s kitten, lurking in the vilest spot known to man, the bottom of a dumpster. A red liquid dripping from the beast’s whiskers shone like drool and the blood of innocents. 

We stared at each. I should have shut the lid, walked back to my office, and called animal control.  I couldn’t. I had to face this monster or forever fear the dumpster and the woods surrounding the parking lot.

A foul wind blew the clouds away. Sunshine hit the raccoon’s eyes, reflecting pure malice.  I stood there for a long moment, painfully aware my only weapon was the bag of shredded documents clutched in my sweaty hand. I raised the bag in my right hand, ready to shut lid with my left, hoping to prevent the raccoon from tearing my throat out.

As I swung the bag up and over the rim of the dumpster, the frightened raccoon scurried behind an empty pizza box.  He left behind a half empty container of marinara sauce, no doubt the red liquid on his whiskers.

Today I will ask myself, am I creating monsters in my mind?
Life on Life’s Terms II © 2015 by Ken Montrose

Today's Freebie

The ebook version of Meditations for the First 30 Days: How not to become roadkill on the highway to recovery can be download for free at http://www.amazon.com/Ken-Montrose/e/B001K8MG0S.  A sample follows.

Lesson Seven

My dog’s brain is the size of a walnut.  We used to walk in the woods behind my house.  Two days in a row he got a big thorn in his paw.  Now we walk the other way.  When I try to walk him toward the woods, he sits down.  He cannot be forced down the path where he felt the pain.  I have a much bigger brain than my dog.  Time and again I walked down a path that nearly killed me.  When I look in his eyes I know he knows he’s smarter than I am.  (Now and again I have to remind him who smashes his muzzle on the cabinets because he’s forgotten for the umpteenth time that he cannot stop on the linoleum.)

I will prove to myself that I have as much common sense as the average dog.  I will not return to the places where I used alcohol and other drugs.  I will not pick up the first drink or other drug.

God, thank you for the dogs.  Remind me of their wisdom the next time I curse them as I clean the sole of my shoe.

Meditations for the First 30 Days (c) 2002 by Ken Montrose