"There’s something in the attic. I can hear it moving around. It sounds big!" my daughter says.

We have had squirrels in there before. They nibbled a hole under the eaves and slipped into the attic above our master bedroom. Like a Goldilocks gang, they drank from the child’s tea set and jumped on the dollhouse beds, breaking them. Then, drunk on pretend tea, they fled, leaving a handful of small, bullet-shaped pellets as payment for the damage. We repaired the hole and tossed out their yen.

"Let’s go see," I say. It takes ten minutes to find a living flashlight, but finally we go to see what is in the attic. The door creaks ominously. I pull the string on the hanging bulb, and bring my flashlight around to illuminate the darkened corners. The light catches the gloss of two eyes, and I swing it back in that direction. Into the face of a bandit-masked raccoon. He bares his pointy white teeth, and hisses loud and low. I drop the flashlight, and we run. Our feet are like cartoon feet, wheels of whirled color in motion. We leave behind a few bullet-shaped pellets.

"You left the flashlight in the attic? Did you turn it off?" my husband asks. (He is the keeper of the batteries in our house, and if I could pass that title onto a more conscientious minion, I would. He is never concerned about batteries unless he needs them.) He gives a dramatic sigh. "I’ll go get it." He comes back white-faced, without the flashlight. I smell poop.

"I’m going to build a trap," he announces. "I can rent a trap from animal control for five dollars..."

He waves this suggestion away, as if traps that have already been invented – designs that have proven effective since the middle ages – are inadequate, and sorely in need of an update to reflect the craftiness of modern wildlife.

I recognize the look in his eye. "Oh Lord. This is going to be like the dog house and the rabbit cage."

"There was absolutely nothing wrong with the dog house and the rabbit cage."

He built the dog house back when we had two dogs. He labored under the assumption that they might one day become outdoor dogs. Ensconced in a pricey, handmade dog house. Outside. As he built it, they watched through the window from their usual spot on the sofa, wearing their matching dog sweaters. When he tried to push our dog Millie into the mouth of the dog house, she released her anal glands. The rabbit. Well, she took one look at the cage and scooted through a hole in the fence in search of a better life. Both the dog house and the rabbit cage were sold, "new, never used," through a newspaper ad for far less than the cost of materials.

"Right," I say. "When you built it, I heard the dogs talking. They thought we were getting a divorce, and you were building a house for yourself. That you were an idiot because it was clearly too small for you to lie down in."

"Now you’re making shit up."

"No way. I heard Jeb say ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ He wanted to tell you, but keeping quiet was his way of saving our marriage."

"What did the rabbit say?"

"She said you were a fine piece of cotton tail, even if you do hammer like a mini lop."

Of course none of this sexy, only slightly patronizing, banter could dissuade him from making a trip to the hardware store for supplies. As he unloads his car, the neighborhood men get a whiff of project and swarm our front porch. He tells them about the raccoon, and describes his plan. He brings out detailed drawings of the trap, which will include a chicken-wire cage, a pulley, rope, a bucket full of broken bricks and an open can of tuna. They nod approvingly.

That first night, he sleeps lightly. A couple of times, he sits up, reaches out to wake me, and says, "I think I hear something..." He hustles to the front porch to gloat. It’s nothing.

The second night, he gets up four times, hearing something that isn’t something. Each time, he comes back to bed a little more defeated.

The third night, the sound of a bucket of bricks hitting the ground wakes both of us. We look at one another in amazement, and run to investigate. The trap dangles up near the roof of the porch. Empty. The tuna can is gone. "A problem with the tension on the rope," he says. A temporary setback, easily fixed with a design modification.

The fourth night. Bricks hit ground. Again, the trap is dangling. The raccoon is feasting, probably nearby. I hear snickering. (That might have been me.)

Things get worse. The raccoon moves his family in, a wife and babies. A joyous reunion! They hold an all-night party above our heads as we’re trying to sleep. The party must include a pinata, because I hear a series of "thwacks" followed by squeals of delight as the raccoon babies scurry to gather their candy, or whatever the hell it is that raccoons put in their pinatas.

The next morning, I say, "Well, there goes the trap. We can’t catch just one of them, and leave the rest. What are we going to do?"

"Traps," he says in a dazed voice. "We need more traps..."

I leave him sketching plans for a complicated system of interlocking traps, and drive out to see Dennis, who owns the feed store on the far reaches of town. I’m sure Dennis can help, because if it’s wisdom you have to pull like the one remaining toof from the mouth of a snuff-dipping, old man wearing overalls, well then it must be true. With Dennis, a conversation that should take five minutes – by phone – takes a gallon of gas and twenty minutes of me chattering into silence, admiring his vicious one-eared cat, and asking after his adorable daughter. Eventually, we get to the raccoon, and I learn what might drive them off: a radio in the attic, played loudly and continuously. To repay Dennis for his help, I buy two dusty, literally "old fashioned," sticks of candy, and a dog whistle that I am afraid to put in my mouth.

At home, I find a radio and an extension cord. Given their copious use of eyeliner, I figure most raccoons are fans of The Cure, so I tune the radio to a country music station, and turn the volume up all the way up. It’s so loud that we can hear it clearly in our downstairs bedroom.

Lying in bed, we hear Travis Tritt, Keith Urban, Rascal Flatts, a few songs and singers I don’t recognize, and then Reba McEntire. "Here’s your one chance Fancy, don’t let me down..."

I say, "I hate this song. It’s Sister Carrie in Appalachia."

He says, "I like this song."

"You also like fancy traps. ‘Here’s your one chance Fancy Trap, don’t let me down...’"

He rolls over and gives me the cold shoulder, while the radio plays on.

"What!? Come on! That’s funny!" I drift off while Garth Brooks is singing about friends and la-owe places. I take note, because I may need some.

I wake to silence. I find my husband in the kitchen eating cereal. The radio is sitting on the table.

"They’re gone," he says, glumly.

"That’s great," I say. "Aren’t you happy?"

"I worked hard on that trap," he pouts.

"I know you did, Honey. It’s a great trap!"

"You’re humoring me."

"No! No! It’s the best trap I’ve ever seen, and I know my traps," I say. "How about you pour out that cereal, and I’ll make you some breakfast?"

He wastes no time dumping the cereal. "Pancakes?" I nod. "Cheese grits, and those hashbrowns with the carmelized onions, peppers and mushrooms?" I nod. "Eggs Benedict with fried shrimp and chipotle hollandaise on top?" I frown. He gives me a boyish, weepy-wounded look. I remember the mean "fancy trap" comment. I sigh and nod.

An hour later, when I’m still at the stove, I think, Wouldn’t it have been easier to have been the one who built the trap? I hear snickering. (It’s not me.)