Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not Lola or Otis was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung on the ledge with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

Pups were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of rawhide danced in their heads.

And me in my jammies, not wearing a cap

Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When in the spare room Otis made such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the patio door I flew like a flash,

Flipped on the light and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a Leslieville raccoon without much fear.

A teenage Procyon lotor, looking for a place to rest,

I knew in a moment that scaring it off would be best.

We barked, we growled, we banged on the glass,

Until that ‘coon decided he should move its ass!

His eyes-they were beattie! his belly robust!

He knew that vacating the deck he must!

He jumped on the ledge and reached for the tree,

Looking for one that would allow him to flee!

It took him several moments to actually get away,

Merry Christmas he did not actually say

He cursed and he mumbled and growled as he left,

I will be back again another night to make a great mess.