I was awakened at 4:15 this morning by the sound of bouncing plastic. I also noted the absence of my fountain's gentle pitter-patter.

I leapt to my feet, with the following previous nocturnal disturbances in mind: "someone" had opened both fish food and turtle food and dumped them in the garden pond; my turtle mysteriously disappeared a couple of weeks ago; my goldfish are dwindling rapidly in number; "someone" has been using my daughters' wading pool as a bathtub. "Someone" was out there, and I was going to find out who it was.

Plus, I had a headache and needed a glass of water. We went out last night.

I turned on the back porch light, and my suspicions were confirmed: raccoons. Young, frolicking raccoons. There were about 4 of them, running up and down the cement stairs to the basement laundry room door, playing with my daughter's toys, and generally enjoying themselves. The fountain was off; either they unplugged it or they disengaged the underwater hose in their quest for the last remaining fish. After the earwigs' recent attempt on my life by shorting out my air conditioner, anything was possible.

One raccoon had a sand shovel and a bucket. He's the one who woke me up. He was scooping rocks in and out of the bucket. Another was joyfully examining every single plastic toy. Another, I swear to God, was examining a squirt gun. He was holding it correctly, like a human, looking down the barrel.

Watching them was more entertaining than the movie we saw: The Island with Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johansen and Steve Buscemi. Do not see this movie. If you do, don't blame me. I tried to warn you.