Raccoons Hold Their Ground in Turf War

Moth balls.

White Ivory bar soap.

Cayenne pepper.

Coyote urine.

Talk radio.

Sprinklers.

Guinness stout.

Grub killer.

Deer repellent.

These are a few of my favorite things.

Why? Because every one of them has brought me relief. But only for a while.

The sad truth is that in my long-running battle with furry critters intent on destroying my yard, I have been the Dodgers and they have been the Mets.

Raccoons are the kings of my castle.

The nice little frontyard I painstakingly built, so my daughter would have a place to play, is regularly rooted by these striped insurgents. And so I was encouraged when my boss told me about a friend who lived nearby and could speak of victory.

My intelligence-gathering mission took me around the reservoir and up the hill to the Silver Lake home of writer Charles Fleming (“High Concept,” “The Ivory Coast,” etc.).

Every night for the longest time, Fleming told me, his family was awakened by the howls of their dog. The dog was barking at the skunks and raccoons that regularly dug up the yard in search of grubs. And then, to add insult, the beasts washed their paws in his hot tub. It’s like having a burglar clean out your jewelry drawer and then soak in the Jacuzzi before leaving.

The nightly parties took a toll on Fleming’s lawn. He tried bringing in fresh sod, but every time he did, he’d go outside the next morning to find whole pieces of it turned upside down and laid flat again, root-side up.

Fleming went through all the same products I had tried, and they all worked briefly, especially the cayenne pepper.

“It worked about the best for us too,” I said. “But those little containers are very expensive.”

“Smart & Final,” Fleming said cheerily, with a glint of something I recognized all too well.

Battle fatigue.

A person can get a little twisted after so many nights padding around the yard with a tub of red pepper, only to have the raccoons feast on the grubs anyway, as if Emeril Lagasse had prepared them Cajun- style.

A couple of years ago, Fleming attempted a more permanent solution. He called the city of Los Angeles Animal Services office to get a permit and rent a trap. Cost him $50, Fleming said. He came home with his trap, baited it with dog and cat food and placed it in the bushes of his frontyard.

“The very first night,” he said, “we caught a cat.”

The cat was not happy, and now Fleming had a new problem:

How do you get an angry cat out of a cage without being mauled?

“It looked like a Tasmanian devil. I went and got oven mitts, goggles and may even have had on a motorcycle helmet. The cat came blistering out of the cage.”

The next night, the trap slammed shut again, and Fleming went out in the morning to find a possum.

Another night or two went by and the trap slammed shut again.

“We caught the same cat,” he said, and now the cat was really in a foul mood.

“This time I think I wore like a welder’s suit. I was considerably better armed than I had been the first time.”

Being a smart human, Fleming decided to stop putting cat food in the trap. All he offered now was dog food.

“Then, a couple of nights later, we caught a skunk.”

This presented yet another challenge.

“I called the city and said, ‘I’ve got a skunk. You need to come pick it up.’ ”

The city asked if he was permitted to catch a skunk.

No, Fleming said. He was permitted to catch a raccoon.

“Then we can’t pick it up,” the city told him.

“What do I do?” Fleming asked, uncertain how to release a skunk without getting sprayed.

“That’s up to you,” said the city.

His wife, Julie Singer, draped a blanket over herself and grabbed a long stick to approach the trapped animal.

“She looked like Bela Lugosi,” said Fleming, who kept his distance.

Time was running out on Fleming’s raccoon permit, but just before the deadline, he finally got what he was after.

“A grub-fattened raccoon.”

Unfortunately, the varmint had company. Outside the cage, two more raccoons, looking very much like a wife and child at the prison gate, were in distress.

“They were all trying to work the corners of the cage” to spring the father, Fleming said. “They were really working feverishly.”

Fleming went in to call the city and report the good news, but on the way, he committed a critical misstep. He told his two teenage daughters the news, and they went outside to witness the drama.

“You’re not going to call the city,” one of them pleaded.

“They were really heartbroken at the prospect of separating this family,” Fleming said. “It was an attractive, loving and clearly very close raccoon family, and it was in psychic distress over what had happened.”

But Fleming had fought too long and hard to suddenly release his prisoner and wave a white flag simply because his daughters had gone to the other side. He called the city and told them to come pick up the father raccoon and any other raccoons they found loitering around the cage, and when he returned later that day all three were gone.

Unfortunately, more than three raccoons are working Silver Lake, so he’s still got problems. In fact, his front lawn is full of fresh trench work by visiting vandals.

The city, it turns out, no longer rents raccoon traps. I suppose I could call a private trapper or consider the suggestion of a reader who told me human urine is the best deterrent. I’m just not sure.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t expect to prevail ultimately, but I have now spotted paw prints on the edge of my Jacuzzi.

All I’m asking is that they let me use it on weekends.

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Reach the columnist at [email protected] and read previous columns atlatimes.com