My wife and I waited for the garage door to go up, sitting in the car talking about the evening that was winding down.

When I tapped the gas to pull into the garage, she let out a small scream, and I immediately hit the breaks.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, looking around to see if I had hit something.

“Look,” Kathy said. “Look up there.”

She pointed to the upper left corner of the garage, where I saw something moving along the rafters. A furry tail hung down from the ceiling area.

“It’s just a cat,” I said.

“It’s NOT a cat,” she said. “It’s ... a raccoon! We’ve never had a raccoon in the garage before.”

(I knew that, of course. I would have certainly remembered a raccoon, I think. And why would we have had one, anyway?)

“Just sit still. Maybe he’ll leave,” she said. “He’s probably scared.”

I did not say anything to Kathy, but I had absolutely no plans to leave the vehicle. The legacy involving men of the Eighinger family shield has always noted we are not a brave bunch, nor do we intend to try and make family or friends believe otherwise.

I was perfectly content to remain in the car until August if need be.

Then I saw the raccoon for the first time. It leaned down below the rafters, and I could feel my eyes almost pop out of my head.

The thing was the size of a Chevy Cavalier.

We may have encountered more than a raccoon. We may be at war with Bigfoot.

And more than ever, I was convinced at that very instant I would be content to live the rest of my life in this vehicle. I had satellite radio, so I would miss no major sports events. And I also had my cell phone, so I could call for food when the need arose. But I was not getting out of the car with Bigfoot in the same garage.

After several minutes of waiting to see if the raccoon planned on exiting the Eighinger property, we gave up. A replay of a NASCAR race was coming on soon, plus I needed a snack. So it was time to go the house.

“I’m not getting out of this car,” Kathy emphasized.

I didn’t let on, but I, of course, wasn’t getting out of the car either.

“Maybe the floodwater drove the raccoon inland,” I hypothesized.

“Raccoons already live inland, you idiot,” said Kathy.

We — and by “we,” I mean Kathy — finally figured it would work to back out of the garage, shut the door and head to the house. I told her I could later return to the garage, open the side door and let the raccoon escape at some point in the night.

About 15 minutes after I went into the house, I began my trek back to the garage.
I thought I may need a gun, although I’ve never owned one or shot one. Next idea?

A big stick. A really big stick. I could ward off Bigfoot with a club. But what if the masked crusader jumped on me and sank his teeth into my neck?

I decided to head to the garage bare-handed and reason with the creature.

I tiptoed up to the side of the garage, gently opened the side door and flipped the light switch.

As the light came on and I looked straight ahead, Bigfoot was hanging from the rafter looking at me, almost eye to eye.

He (or she) either smiled at me ... or was it an out-and-out hiss? I wasn’t sure, but I could feel my legs turn to marmalade.

I looked at Bigfoot again. He (or she) looked back.

All of my options danced through my head in a matter of seconds, and I picked the most logical.

I ran like a schoolgirl.

Eighingers are not brave men, but part of our heritage indicates that we live long and fruitful lives. That means avoiding any confrontations with raccoons the size of a Chevy Cavalier.

The next morning, the raccoon was gone.

Kathy has yet to go back in the garage.

—seighinger@whig.com/221-3377