In the spring of 1991 our flock of some 70-odd sheep, living on the 100-acre island that I grew up, on was massacred. Luckily all the sheep weren't wiped out all at once. It was after the first couple victims were discovered and investigated that we suspected some type of carnivorous predator (although to this day its identity remains a mystery.) After we got more of an idea of what we were dealing with we set clamp-style bear traps baited with sardines throughout the wooded northern end of York Island. All we trapped were raccoons, and because their hind quarters were completely mangled by the traps, they had to be shot. This was no problem until one morning my father and I came to the first trap, which held a fat raccoon. Dad cycled a round into his 30-30 rifle and quickly dispatched the critter. As it rolled over onto its back we could see by her swollen teats that she was a mother. The knowledge that her babies would die disturbed us and we wanted to help them. Dad asked the local coon hunter where we should look, and he suggested the dilapidated houses, by the dock. Armed with a hammer and a crowbar we entered the buildings and made a thorough sweep of the downstairs and its many cracks and crevices. Finding nothing we climbed the decrepit staircase and put our ears to the walls to listen for telltale squeaks. Dad thought he could hear something, and wedging his crowbar between the laths of the wall, exposed a ball of fir composed of three baby raccoons.
             We gave the babies a home in our vacated rabbit hutch. They took a strong liking to the whole family, as we did to them, and thrived on being fed warm milk from my little brother's bottles. The raccoons' attachment to us sometimes caused problems. One incident happened late at night while everyone was asleep. The raccoons had discovered how to use a doorknob and snuck in the middle of the night to do some exploring. Because they were never allowed on the se...