Operation: Trash Panda

It was long past midnight in Whispering Pines National Park, the kind of night when the Harvest Moon hung low like a spotlight and the air smelled of pine, damp earth, and leftover barbecue grease. The crickets were chirping lazy jazz like an underpaid house band in a dive bar. Five raccoons lounged around their favorite haunt (an overflowing dumpster behind the ranger station) discussing important business, like which garbage can had the best rotisserie chicken bones.

Then came the sound that froze every tail in mid-swish. The screeching of skidding tires. With a sickening thud, Slickpaw Jones bounced heavily off a car fender, and sailed through the air, eyes rolling, and landed belly-up beside a crushed can of Pilsner.

“Man down!” chittered Nugget, the smallest raccoon with eyes like marbles and a gunky baby pacifier dangling from his neck. “Slickpaw’s been tagged by a Prius!”

The motley crew raced to the edge of the dirt road. Through the darkness, headlights burned white streaks through the trees, dust swirling like smoke. The air smelled acrid -- like melted sneakers and fear. Slickpaw groaned, a soft wheeze escaping him. “Tell my mom I love her… and that I never stole her Cheetos.”

“Easy, soldier,” said Greasetail McGraw, pressing his tiny paw dramatically to Slickpaw’s chest. “You’re not goin’ out like this. There’s still a few taco buffets left in you, old man.”

From the shadows, Cheddar Slim peeked through a patch of grass. “Human. Incoming.”

A pair of boots crunched on the gravel. The driver - a young man with a flannel jacket and a guilty face - stood over Slickpaw’s limp form, wringing his hands.

“Oh no, oh no,” he muttered. “Not again. Bruce is gonna kill me.” He sprinted toward the ranger station, leaving the car door open and the headlights slicing across the trees.

Crumbs twitched beside Greasetail. “Bruce? Who’s Bruce?”

“Bruce the Park Ranger,” said Greasetail grimly. “The tall one with the kind eyes and boots that squeak when he walks.”

A few minutes later, the cabin door flew open and Ranger Bruce appeared, tugging on his boots and rubbing sleep from his face. He was in his forties, broad-shouldered, with a permanent five o’clock shadow. He muttered something about “damn kids speeding again,” grabbed a flashlight, and knelt beside the convulsing procyonid. The beam washed over the raccoon’s blood-matted fur.

“Poor little guy,” Bruce said softly. “Hang in there, buddy.”

He turned to the trembling driver. “You did the right thing, calling me. I’ll rush him to the vet in town.”

The raccoons crouched in the underbrush, motionless. Nugget sniffled loudly. “Is this… is this the end?”

“Shut it,” hissed Cheddar Slim. “You’ll blow our cover.”

Bruce carefully lifted Slickpaw with a towel, his big human hands gentle. Slickpaw whimpered once, blinking weakly toward his friends.

Greasetail saluted. “Stay strong, brother. We’ll find you.”

Slickpaw managed a faint thumbs-up – or as close to one as a raccoon paw could manage – before Bruce placed him in a cardboard box lined with an old T-shirt. The ranger’s truck door creaked open, and the box disappeared inside. The engine caught and rumbled. Headlights swept across the trees like searchlights, and then Bruce was gone, the taillights glowing as red as embers down the road. The raccoons just stood there, silent.

Nugget hiccupped through a sob.

“You think he’s…a goner?”

“Not a chance,” said Greasetail. “Slickpaw’s tougher than a day-old bagel.”

Cheddar Slim scowled. “And twice as chewy.”

“He’s too young to be roadkill, man.” Nugget lamented, wringing his paws.

Cheddar Slim stared at the dark highway. “We ain’t losin’ him. Not like this.”

Greasetail’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, fellas,” he said with determination. “Let’s bring our boy home.”

The others turned.

“You mean…?”

“I mean we’re going on a mission, boys,” Greasetail said, raising his paw in the air. “To the hospital!”

The moonlight caught the scar over his left eye. Somewhere, a trash can lid clattered like a drumroll.

Crumbs groaned. “Aw, not again.”

But deep down, every one of them knew there was no turning back because nobody - nobody - left a ‘trash-brother-from-another-mother’ behind. Greasetail paced atop the dumpster like a general preparing for war.

“Alright, listen up, Trash Command. ‘Operation Trash Panda' will commence at roughly 0-3 hundred hours. Here’s the plan. We track the ranger’s jeep, infiltrate the human facility, and bring our boy home. Questions?”

Cheddar Slim raised an eyebrow. “You mean the vet? I don’t trust a place that smells like bleach and broken dreams.”

Crumbs nodded solemnly. “Roger that, boss. What’s our ETA?”

“At approximately three oh five hours,” said Greasetail, pointing a paw toward the horizon, “we go full recon. We get the lay of the land. See how tight security is. Determine probability of Jeep snacks.”

Nugget jumped up, enthusiasm outweighing sense. “We’re busting into a vet hospital?!”

Cheddar groaned. “You’re the only raccoon I know who sounds excited about getting tranquilized.”

Greasetail grinned. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.”

The group disappeared into the shadows, scampering along the park road where Bruce’s tire tracks glowed faintly in the moonlight. Above them, the stars blinked like distant security cameras, watching a gaze of garbage raccoons march toward destiny – or total disaster. Back at Dumpster HQ, Nugget spread a greasy park map over a pizza box. “Target’s here,” he said, tapping his paw. “Whispering Pines Veterinary Clinic. We sneak in, extract Slickpaw, and beat it outta there.”

“How are we getting there?” asked Cheddar Slim.

Greasetail grinned, teeth yellow in the moonlight as he pointed to one of the Ranger’s Jeeps parked in the shadows.

“GPS baby.”

The others stared.

“Oh man, he's lost it,” said Crumbs, doubtfully.

“Never let fear and common sense stop you!” said Greasetail with a smirk.

At 3:05 a.m., Ranger Dale was lost in slumber in his cabin, unaware of militant raccoons were crouched outside, humming the Mission Impossible theme in perfect off-key harmony.

Nugget crawled under the jeep with a fork. Sparks flew. The engine sputtered and coughed awake.

“Buckle up!” shouted Greasetail, hopping behind the wheel.

“We don’t have seatbelts!” screamed Crumbs.

“Then hold onto your tails!”

The jeep fishtailed out of the lot, plowing through pine needles and one unfortunate lawn gnome. When they finally slammed into a recycling bin outside the hospital, Cheddar Slim nodded, “Russian judge gives it a '10'. Stuck the landing.”

The automatic doors opened for a nurse, and five raccoons darted through like furry commandos. Inside, bright lights stung their eyes. The pungent smell of bleach hit them.

“Alright,” said Greasetail. “Nugget, find snacks. Crumbs, lookout. Slim, help me locate Slickpaw.”

They scuttled down hallways, ducking under gurneys and dodging nurses’ shoes.

“Room 12,” whispered Crumbs from the ceiling vent. “He’s in there. Look alive men!”

Slickpaw was strapped to a hospital gurney, wrapped in a blanket with an IV in his arm. He was halfway through a sugar-free, chocolate pudding cup.

“Greasetail?! Am I dead? The world smells like sanitizer and betrayal.”

“Not yet, brother,” said Greasetail. “We’re bustin’ you out.”

Then Nugget froze, staring at a cabinet labeled Controlled Substances. “Yo, what’s ‘mor-phine’?”

“Uncle Ed told me about this stuff!” said Cheddar Slim, as he used his teeth to wrench open the pill bottle. “He had to take it when he got run over by a moose.”

Ten minutes, and one bottle of morphine later, the raccoons were fully unhinged.

Crumbs kept mumbling, “The walls are breathing,” while petting a rubber glove.

Nugget was butt-flossing an IV pole singing Ole Town Road.

Cheddar Slim sat in the corner, eyes glassy, clutching a half-empty bottle of sanitizer and wearing a nurse’s nametag that said Janice.

And Greasetail stood on a rolling chair shouting, “I can smell purple!”

Right then, a janitor walked in, blinked once, and left again without saying a word.

Slickpaw sat in a wheelchair, dazed but smiling. He was now wearing the pudding cup like a party hat.

“Let’s roll out, boys,” said Greasetail.

They crept commando-style into the staff lounge, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like angry bees. The air smelled of burnt toast, antiseptic, and exhaustion. Greasetail poked his head up over the counter, eyes glinting.

“Alright, gentlemen. We need a distraction. Something loud, smoky, and stupid. Any ideas?”

Crumbs pointed at a shiny machine on the counter. “That thing makes brown human fuel.”

“The coffee maker?” said Cheddar Slim.

“Affirmative,” Crumbs said, puffing his chest. “And it’s plugged into a highly flammable-looking strip of electrical doom.”

Greasetail squinted. “Sounds like a date with destiny.”

Nugget climbed onto the counter, sniffing at the machine. “How’s it work?”

“Push buttons till something blows up,” said Slim.

They crowded around, chittering and trilling with excitement. Nugget pressed one button, then another. A gurgle. A hiss. Then, a sudden whoosh of boiling water and steam.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” yelled Greasetail. “Stand clear people!”

The raccoons scattered just as the coffee pot began to overflow, hot liquid cascading down the counter and right onto the overloaded power bar below. There was a zap! followed by a shower of sparks. The smell of burning plastic filled the air.

“Ohhh, that’s not gonna be good,” muttered Crumbs, backing up slowly.

Then the fire alarm shrieked to life. Red strobes flashed. Sprinklers exploded overhead. Water rained down. Fur matted. Every dog in the clinic went 'nose to the roof'. Greasetail stood heroically on the counter, dripping and proud.

“See?” he shouted over the alarm. “Told ya caffeine saves lives!”

The raccoons scrambled, slipping on the wet linoleum, sliding through puddles and abandoned coffee filters. A nurse burst into the staff lounge just in time to see a sodden raccoon in a Hawaiian shirt climb out of the garbage can with a soggy donut in his mouth.

“Was that…?” she started, wondering if she’d accidentally doubled down on the Adavin earlier.

But the raccoons had vanished, scurrying down the corridor as alarms wailed and humans shouted. Smoke drifted through the hall, and in the chaos, Greasetail grinned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, as they disappeared around the corner, “that is what we call a five alarm smoke show.”

The doors of the veterinary clinic burst open, alarms blaring. They shot outside through the automatic doors just as Ranger Dale’s jeep screeched into view. Both Rangers jumped out, flashlights in hand.

“I knew it! Greasetail, step away from the patient!”

“Negative!” yelled Greasetail, pushing Slickpaw downhill in the wheelchair at top speed.

“Freeeeeeeedom!” Slickpaw yelled before crashing into a vending machine.

The raccoons scattered like buckshot, disappearing into bushes, their chirps of laughter echoing through the parking lot. By sunrise, they were back at Dumpster Headquarters.

Greasetail stood atop the dumpster, silhouetted by dawn. “Mission accomplished.”

“We nearly died,” said Crumbs.

“We lived to tell the tale,” corrected Greasetail.

Ranger Dale stepped from the trees, holding his hat. “You furry criminals stole my jeep again.”

Greasetail smirked. “I prefer the term ‘borrowed’ without interest.”

“You left it in neutral and it rolled into a pond.”

“Car wash included in the price of freedom.”

Dale sighed. “You’re all banned from the park.”

“Joke’s on you,” said Nugget. “We live here.”

Dale turned, muttering, “I need a new job.”

When he was gone, Cheddar Slim popped open a stolen pudding cup and raised it high.

“To Slickpaw.”

“To the mission,” said Crumbs.

“To poor life choices,” said Nugget.

Greasetail raised his can of root beer. “To Task Force Trash Panda.”

They joined together making a sound which can only be described as a cross between arguing toddlers and malfunctioning kazoos as the dawn broke over the trees, their voices wild, triumphant, and a little loopy from residual morphine. Somewhere in the distance, Ranger Dale’s radio crackled again.

“Dale, be advised… the delivery truck has been hijacked by a honey badger.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Of course it has.”