Attack of the Coons 🦝
A night of gunfire to remember
It was around 1993. About five years old I woke up to my parents screaming late in the night, well past midnight.
Screaming, yelling, and domestic violence were common in the home even then, but not at this time of night. This was distinct from the more normal pattern of abuse that I would figure out as I aged - articulated here.
From what I recall a family of racoons had been attacking our trash cans late at night more frequently than usual. This was a normal feature of living in that area during the 90s, these trash pandas would always find a way into your trash, making a huge mess and commotion.
But the normal frequency was more like once a month or once every few weeks. Not every night, night after night. The animals would roam the neighborhood and move on, house to house, block to block.
For some reason these racoons kept coming back, and unfortunately the area we kept our trash cans was right outside my baby sister’s bedroom window. She was about two at the time, her crib only inches from the window.
Naturally these feral animals going wild digging through trash would wake her up, causing her to cry, causing my parents to wake up.
My mom would go soothe my sister, while my dad would run outside and chase the animals away. Understandably this was a pain in the ass for both of them. It’s hard enough keeping a baby this young soundly asleep. Adding wild animals to the mix truly did not help.
Unfortunately my dad was abusing steroids around this time, eventually leading to a heart attack about two years later while we were on vacation. Consequently his short fuse for violence was even shorter than usual.
The racoons being a persistent nuisance like this went on for maybe week or two at most. Almost every night, the whole family would wake up to the crying, screaming, and yelling.
Then one night, he snapped.
The racoons came back in full force. The screaming was even louder than usual, and this time it was my mom screaming the loudest, begging him to STOP STOP STOP. He was yelling something in response but even then it was difficult to make out what it was between my sister crying and mom screaming.
In the dark I had ventured out to the living room, which was in between my sister’s room and the front door. I just stood there as my mom was in my sister’s room holding her, my dad storming out the front door, paying no attention to me.
Then seconds later, it started.
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM
He began shooting at the racoons with his Hollywood classic Uzi submachine gun. I don’t know if he hit any in the dark of night, and I don’t know how many rounds he fired, but it sounded like a full mag dump.
I don’t recall what my mom did, but I assume she ran out of my sister’s bedroom to get away from the gunfire.
Not long after the police showed up, lights and sirens blaring. Keep in mind this was a solidly middle class neighborhood. Lots of rich old farts with big boats on the water, other families with kids, etc.
Even then we were that family on the block with regular police cars showing up, but not for gunfire. Just the usual routine of screaming, yelling, and domestic violence. This night was unique, and never once did I ever hear gunfire in that area again, all the way through 2006 when I moved away for college.
When the police came I recall seeing my dad outside the front door from the living room, talking with the officers. Ranting and raving about the racoons and my little sister.
The problem was legitimate of course, but it didn’t warrant opening fire in a residential neighborhood. Surely even then discharging a firearm like this was unlawful, probably first-degree misdemeanor.
Back then cops were a lot more forgiving for misdemeanor “mix ups” like this, and somehow someway he talked his way out of being arrested.
The next thing I remember was, a few days later in the evening, him showing me the Uzi and magazines from the trunk of his white car in our driveway. He was vocally sad about the gun and having to go pawn it.
I don’t remember his explanation, but someone was more or less forcing him to sell it. Possibly my mom demanding so, but my better guess is the police demanding he get rid of it or facing prosecution for the night of the coons.
What makes me think this is that no one in my memory called 911 that night, it was a neighbor (or probably several). I can see them pressing police to act in some way, and this being a middle ground solution.
He did end up selling the Uzi, and didn’t have another firearm for quite a while. He wasn’t really a gun guy anyway, he preferred using his fists for abuse.
The only guns I ever saw him own and operate were this racoon shooting Uzi, and in the early 2000s he bought a 12 gauge Remington 870 shotgun for keeping on the boat during overnight fishing trips. We shot at a couple of birds with it out in the middle of nowhere, that’s about it. No racoon killings.
What happened to the racoons you might wonder?
Well we didn’t hear from them for a long time. They were either dead or scared shitless the rest of their life of ever coming to our house again.
Now you might ask, was my dad a psychopath?
Yes absolutely.
/s/ Anthony Dream Johnson