Chapter 7

    You head towards home, where an extended family of raccoons have recently taken over, a rather embarrassing situation for someone of your profession.  During the day, when you're usually out anyway, they don't bother you, but once the sun's gone, you have to be too, or they will attack.  You know this because you tried to negotiate a peaceful coexistence with them the second night of their stay.  They said no and bit you, purportedly because their first day there you tazed each of them while they slept, bagged them and dropped them in a heap in Schenley Park.
    You underestimated their memory capacity, and now for the last few weeks you've been producing some mystifying sea foamy pus.  You've also been couch hopping at night.  Unfortunately, you're running out of hospitable friends, and apparently your place holds some charm for the raccoons apart from food.  Though you never find any scraps when you're home during the day, they must be bringing their own, because you've sterilized the place of all things edible or once edible, and they haven't shown any sign of moving out. 
    Pretty soon you're going to have to resort to asking Jeffy for a place to crash.  You don't want to.  Although, this might be a good opportunity to stop her drooling over you with your own sticky discharge.  The pus.  From the bite-wounds.  No, it'll never work.  Even as a host for rampant infection, you're unbearably attractive.
    When you and Doc arrive at your house, it is just about raccoon o'clock.  You pray to the god of snake-dogs, who you concede is whichever devious college kid created Doc and his siblings (assuming they are of the same litter, of course), that Doc isn't full and pacified from the dog treats and the stuffed fox, then push open the door.
    You overestimated your memory capacity, because the raccoons are significantly larger than you remember them being.  By the light coming in from the porch you can make out maybe five enormities huddled together on top of the kitchen counter.  They seem to be deliberating over whatever is in the center of their circle.  Doc isn't lunging ferociously at the pack of intruders, so you nudge him towards them.  He slithers up to the group and sniffs.  The raccoon nearest him turns its glowing eyes and lets its head fall towards him, its neck lengthening.  More glowing eyes creep out from under the table, behind the counter and through the doorway to the living room as Doc and the raccoon sniff each others' faces.
    All those eyes are floating towards you, and now so are the heads of Doc's new acquaintance and its discussion group.