Somehow, after I finished Sidewalk Sale Across America, I had to have a stuffed raccoon. You see, there is a raccoon in the book, a real raccoon that one of the amateur radio hams saw get hit by a car. The raccoon was taken to an animal shelter to recover.
Cruising the internet, I found exactly what I was looking for. Sent off the order. Then I found something I was NOT looking for -- a hand-puppet racoon. That order flew off even quicker than the other. Then I waited. And waited. Eventually called the company. Spoke to a lovely lady who explained that many of their delivery orders were still on cargo ships somewhere from across the Pacific. So I waited some more.
Six months went by. Heard nothing from the company. Accepted the fact that I was never going to have a black-banded raccoon puppet on my hands. Decided against contacting the company to cancel the order, because I was certain I had given the number of a credit card which had been transferred to a different management company, said new company causing numerous problems which had caused me to quit using the card. If the stuffed animal company issued me a credit on the card, I would despair of ever getting the money.
Last week the letter carrier left a small package on top of my mailbox. Expecting nothing, I was puzzled. But the return address gave me the clue -- my long-awaited raccoon. The plush fur was a bit matted down from being so long in a tight package, but once freed, the fur began to fluff. Fits perfectly on my hand. But now I have another problem . . . I don't speak raccoon.
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