The only thing scarier than an armed raccoon

Klonie JORDAN I love movies.

I'm probably a much more serious cinema fan than your average movie-goer.

What that means is I probably get scared by horror movies more easily than most folks and get emotional during the tear-jerking scenes more easily than most folks.

I'll admit I still cry EVERY TIME during the final scene of "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" when we find out that the wife Del Griffith speaks so fondly of actually died years ago and he doesn't really have a home. How can that not tear your heart out, especially when they're playing "Every Time You Go Away" in the background?

So ladies, turns out I'm a very sensitive guy. Makes you love me even more now, doesn't it?

Of the horror movie genre, the film that really bothered me was the original "A Nightmare on Elm Street." The reason it got to me so much is because I dream a lot and I really can't stand the thought of some freak show killer being in control of what, or how, I dream.

I have always been fascinated by dreams. I dream pretty much every night. And I dream in vivid clarity and can always remember them the next morning. I could have written two or three dozen books by now if I had written down some of the dreams I've had.

At various times, I've tried to figure out what my dreams meant. I even bought a book one time that was supposed to help one figure out those kinds of things but turns out it was of little or no use.

I bring up this topic of dreams because the other night I had a humdinger, which sounds sort of like it was about a small nectar-drinking bird ringing a bell, but it wasn't.

That animated movie "Open Season" was on TV when I went to bed and I think the last image I saw before I went to sleep was the mean old hunter and I remember thinking to myself, "Yeah smart guy, I'll bet you wouldn't be so tough if the animals had guns and could shoot back."

Then I dozed off.

Next thing I knew, I was dreaming it was raccoon hunting season in - get this - San Francisco.

Before I continue with this totally wacky dream, let me tell you that I had some pizza rolls and a couple of sweet pickle slices before I went to bed. I don't know if that had anything to do with me having this dream, but hey, it couldn't have helped. And it was the same day we had run that photo on the front page of that mean raccoon, the one that tried to beat up the dog.

Anyway, there I was on one side of the Golden Gate Bridge with all the other raccoon hunters. There were a few thousand of us.

But here's the kicker. You know what else was there?

All the raccoons.

So you had several thousand hunters and several thousand raccoons.

Here was the deal - each hunter was paired with a raccoon. The hunter raced his raccoon to the other side of the bridge where officials with the wildlife department awaited with shotguns. If you beat your raccoon to the other side, you were given one of the shotguns and you could hunt the raccoon you were paired with.

On the other hand, if your raccoon beat you to the other side, the raccoon got the shotgun and it got to hunt you. So the hunter became the hunted.

How weird is that?

Did I tell you I had pizza rolls and sweet pickle slices before I went to bed?

I did? OK then.

Continuing on.

Well, you should know that the Golden Gate Bridge is 1.7 miles long. You should also know that I am a middleaged, slightly overweight, slow, short-legged fellow who has never actually raced a nocturnal omnivore before.

And my raccoon was buff. I mean it looked like he had been working out on a regular basis for some time. He was wearing Gucci sunglasses and had 6-pack abs.

Well, guess what? My raccoon beat me across the bridge so he got to hunt me instead of me hunting him and to tell you the truth, I was so winded, I wouldn't have really minded all that much if he had gone ahead and put me out of my misery.

But then I got to thinking and came to the conclusion that this wasn't how I wanted to go out - you know, shot by a little crawdad-eating critter wearing a furry mask.

So I high-tailed it toward the city and ducked into an old vacant house to try and lose him.

He came in behind me and I scampered around from room to room in the dark, staying one step ahead of him until I made my way to the basement and saw light coming in around the edge of a doorway. I figured it led to the outside, so I made a beeline toward it, thinking I could bolt out into the street and make my getaway.

Well, I grabbed the doorknob and gave it a firm yank. The door swung open wide and there stood - YIKES! - a full-size adult moose holding a shotgun of his own.

Let me tell you something. The only thing scarier than an armed raccoon is opening a door that you thought led to safety and suddenly seeing a monstrous antlered mammal there packing heat.

The moose cocked the shotgun, raised it and pointed it at my face …

... And then I woke up. And the gospel song "This Ole House" was playing.

And it was on the part that goes:

"My ol' hound dog lies a-sleepin' - he don't know I'm gonna leave,

Else he'd wake up by the fireplace and he'd howl and moan and grieve.

When my huntin' days are over; AIN'T GONNA HUNT THE COON NO MORE …"

How's that for timing?

I don't think I can ever look at Bullwinkle the same again.

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.