 Log Cabin Chronicles 
What's Under The Hood ROYAL ORR
My excellent garage man told me that my aging truck would need regular attention as it approached the 200,000 kilometre mark.
"Engine trouble," he said. "You got to expect it." And he gave me a half-smile, filled with genuine sympathy and regret.
That's the truest sign of an excellent garage man -- regret at the prospect of a client's mechanical failure. Somehow, though, I wasn't expecting the kind of engine trouble I had the other morning.
I awoke to another warm July day and let the dogs slip out the door on my way to the kitchen. I was munching on a banana for a morning jolt of potassium and waiting for the coffee to brew when the dogs began baying.
I glanced through the window to see an odd sight. The dogs were standing in front of my pickup, barking furiously at the bumper.
I stuffed my feet into a pair of old sneakers by the door and went out. The dogs barked even louder.
"All right," I thought through a pre-caffeine haze, "the dogs aren't normally offended by my truck. Must be something inside."
And because there isn't much "inside" in a pickup truck, I rapidly concluded that there must be something under the hood, maybe a stray cat.
I popped the latch and gingerly lifted it open. Flattened on top of the radiator, hissing like its life depended on it (which it arguably did), was a little raccoon. Eyes bright, teeth flashing, its body trembling in terror.
I gently lowered the hood and stepped away, dragging the dogs into the house with me. Now that it was discovered, I hoped the little critter would make a break for it if we all just backed off.
I sat on the porch and watched for as long as it took to finish two cups of coffee. No break for freedom.
I went and lifted the hood again. The little raccoon had worked its way back into a space between the exhaust manifold and the firewall.
I had to use the truck. So I went around, climbed in the cab and turned the motor over once. Motivation, I thought. The raccoon only burrowed deeper.
Now with all the reports of rabies in raccoons across the line, I wasn't about to tussle directly with the snarling little beast. And I didn't have the heart to prod it out with a stick.
My wife, a lateral-thinking problem solver if ever one existed, looked up from her breakfast and said, "Water. Try water."
So I went for the garden hose. I didn't feel great about it, but it was way better than any alternative that had come to mind.
It took only a single blast of cold spring water for the animal to begin a mad scramble for comfort and safety. The little thing dropped quickly onto the frame and began clambering toward the back of the truck, upside down like a monkey.
I spritzed the raccoon with a couple more shots and it dropped to the graveled yard. Shaking itself, it made a quick break for the pasture fence and the trees beyond it.
It was a warm day. I don't think the little fellow was any the worse for his morning shower. After a few minutes, I let the dogs out again. They snuffled around the yard a bit, then settled down in the shade. The truck started fine.
Engine trouble. You got to expect it. Royal Orr is a writer and broadcaster living in Hatley, Quebec.
Copyright © 1999 Royal Orr/Log Cabin Chronicles/7.99 |
