Yesterday I sat in the loom room (far north end of house) and finished the quilt top (don't worry, there are miles to go before anyone sleeps with it) and sat happily with both cats until it was late. All of us rose to our feet (a total of ten) and then there was a thunder of little other feet running for the cat door. The raccoons had infiltrated about two hours earlier than they usually do. They have learned that the food these days may be found at the far southern end of the house (kitchenette the formerly of Doug).
I was not altogether surprised to see one of their number still eating kibble. He went and hid in the bookcase, quite well if you didn't know he was there. He would look out asking for justice and temperance and with his little squeaky toy black rubber nose (I know, long white teeth are included). I discussed the merits of not coming into my house.
Marten came in and started eating kibble. Willow came in and hated him for eating and then Saw Something in the bookshelf. The raccoon attempted to melt me with its sensitive eyes, and then shrank back farther into the bookcase. Willow turned into Terminator Cat stalking her prey. I suggested both she and Marten leave. Got Willow out into the laundry room. Got Marten out through the door outside. The raccoon pretended it didn't see any of this, but gave me to understand that broom handles were not okay. I sat down and read about Proto-Indo-Europeans, periodically banishing cats (this hurt their feelings). Eventually the raccoon paced around the room, tried several times to get out the way it had come in (the long way, through the laundry room, the kitchen, and the room outside the door full of tools), ate a little more kibble, considered upsetting the fresh kitty litter just because it could, and ambled outside.
At least they are not bears. Bears cannot get in through the cat door. I guess we have to pull up the drawbridge earlier.