[Passage from my journal for 8/9 January 1993:]
oday. I got up about sunset—four or five in the afternoon—and went downstairs to see my father and have some stew. He had added considerably to the stew, and the flavor had improved somewhat. We conversed about various news items, and then he headed off for Canby. I watched May to December (appeared to be the first episode), Are You Being Served?, and Waiting for God. The British comedy evening on KOPB. Worked some on notes dealing more or less with my Shakespeare book; mostly dealing with other Elizabethan playwrights, however.
The raccoons came by about 2:30 a.m., two of them, and they accepted eggs from me gladly. They seemed really happy about the unfrozen water I put out for them, and things seemed to be going well until one of them attempted to mount the other. The female (I suppose) ignored her assaulter for a minute or so, and then suddenly turned on him viciously, biting and clawing. He fought back, and they both zipped around the porch at high speed, banging into things and making noises like cats fighting played back at twice normal speed. Eventually they fell off the porch and the one (I think it was the male) took off stiffly and unhappily, or so it looked to me. The other seemed shaken by the conflict too, and walked off a little later. Somebody came back and ate the rest of the food later, though. I didn’t see it; I was writing. (In all fairness, I don’t know what sex either of them was; I would suppose the one attempting to mount would have to be male, but I’ve seen dogs attempt to screw other male dogs, so who really knows? And what do I know about the sex life of raccoons, anyway?)