There is a raccoon in my trash can

I am officially not a redneck.

I can prove this, because right now, I'm waiting for animal control. It helps my case that I've got a glass of wine next to me, and that the missus is watching PBS. But that's not why I'm not a redneck.

I'm not a redneck because there's a raccoon in my trash can. Allow me to explain.

About 15 minutes ago, I took out the trash. I opened the supercan lid and dropped the bag and pizza box in. I immediately heard a sound whose closest equivalent is David Lee Roth's yelp before the chorus of "Panama" kicks in.

I returned inside.

"I think there's a raccoon in the trash can," I told my wife. She said I was nuts. I got a flashlight.

I'm not nuts. There's a raccoon in the trash can. It's curled up in one corner. It may be hurt. I'm not sure.

The important thing here is that I resisted the urge to solve this problem myself. I called the cops. They're on their way over (memo to self: turn off PBS).

There is a raccoon in my trash can.