Demon's Story

Where do I even begin?

I was only five years old when my family—primarily my father—decided to get a pet raccoon. I don’t remember any of the conversations or considerations that must have gone into that decision. There was a woman named Elsie Bevins who I believe played a key role in how this all came to be. I don’t remember meeting her, but I picture her having some kind of ranch filled with all sorts of animals.

What I do know is this: when the baby raccoon came to us, his eyes were still closed. He was a second-generation, captive-born raccoon.

I vaguely remember the bottle feeding—and the most amazingly snuggly little creature I had ever seen. He had tiny black hands with the softest skin, and little fingers that could grip you just like a human baby. I remember my parents laying him on his back in a tea towel, feeding him from a small bottle as milk dribbled down his face and into his fur. My father would use a warm washcloth, just damp enough, to gently clean his face afterward.

He slept in a tall crate with soft bedding and a heating pad. I remember my dad placing one of my stuffed animals in with him, and the baby raccoon would curl up and hug it while he slept. He also had an old fashioned alarm clock. It ticked softly and my mother said it mimicked the heartbeat of his mother. I’d watch his little head bob and him struggle to keep his eyes open, only to loose the battle to sleep, his little head drooping down until he’d just comically fall over sideways next to my stuffed toy. He’s nuzzle it and get his face buried under one of its arms and close his eyes.

It was the sweetest thing I had ever seen.

After a couple of weeks, his eyes began to open—just tiny slits at first, revealing a glimmer beneath. Then one day, one eye opened completely… and soon after, the other.

Everything changed.

He began to wobble around his enclosure and call out for us when he realized we weren’t nearby. My father carried him constantly—tucked under his arm while doing chores around the house. I don’t remember who named him, and honestly, I never really called him by it—but my parents named him Demon.

After a few more weeks, Demon became very mobile—and incredibly curious.

We filled his enclosure with objects to explore, constantly swapping in new ones to keep him entertained, like a bay in a playpen. He had a little harness and leash, and we would walk him around the house and yard. He also had two wash tubs: one for rinsing his food and one that became his bathroom.

Many people don’t realize this, but raccoons are deeply tied to water. They instinctively bring food to water, rolling and “washing” it before eating. I watched Demon scoop up pieces of dog food, toss them into the tub, let them float, and then carefully roll each piece before eating it.

They also tend to use water for defecation—so his second tub became something of a watery litter box.

As the weeks passed, Demon became fully imprinted on our family—especially my father.

He would run to us, wanting to be held. We slowly introduced him to our indoor dogs—the lucky ones who lived inside, as opposed to the hunting dogs in the kennels. Demon loved dogs. He wrestled with them, grabbed their necks, and playfully nipped at them. The dogs loved him right back, chasing him until he’d dart under the couch for cover.

It was perfect—it burned off his endless energy without us having to entertain him constantly.

We even had pictures of Demon with his arms wrapped around the neck of our Doberman, Heidi. He also bonded with many of my dad’s Bluetick Hounds. Because they grew up with him, those dogs would actually ignore the scent of raccoons while hunting. Even a Black and Tan hound named Daisy Mae—known for her coon-hunting instincts—treated him like family.

Raccoons aren’t solitary animals. They live in small groups.

And Demon had decided we were his, dogs and all.

At around two months old, Demon was still living in a crate just off the kitchen. My father was planning to build him an outdoor hutch, but for the time being, the crate was his home when we were away.

One afternoon, we put him down for a nap—tucked into his cozy wooden box with toys, water, and food—and left to run errands.

I will never forget what we saw when we came home.

At first, my mother froze.

She thought we had been burglarized.

She wouldn’t let my brother and me enter the house. She cautiously stepped inside, listening for any sound, scanning for someone hiding. It was terrifying.

Then she saw it.

Demon’s crate door… wide open.

He had figured out how to unlatch it from the inside with those soft, clever little hands.

The kitchen was complete chaos.

Every cabinet door was open. Nearly everything inside had been pulled out and scattered across the floor—bags, dishes, silverware, cleaning supplies, pots, pans. The paper towel roll had been completely unraveled and shredded.

Some jars had broken. We panicked, worried he had been cut—but somehow, he was unharmed.

He did, however, smell like pickle juice and maraschino cherries. Those jars had shattered, and the sticky contents had been licked up and tracked throughout the house.

He had even opened the upper cabinets. There was cereal everywhere, half-eaten cookies scattered about… and then there was the flour.

He had clearly bitten into the bag, dug through it, and rolled in it.

We later found him hiding under the couch, ears back, wearing what I can only describe as a guilty expression—as if he knew he had done something both wonderful and very wrong.

His paws were barely recognizable—coated in a thick paste of syrup, flour, and who knows what else. They looked more like dough-covered drumsticks than hands. He had tracked this sticky mess everywhere—hallways, bathrooms, even our bunk beds.

He had had the time of his life.

With a long sigh, my mom grabbed a broom and began sweeping up broken glass. My brother and I sorted piles of items to wash and put away. After an hour and a half, the kitchen was still a disaster, but she paused to give Demon a bath in the sink, washing the dough out of his fur and drying him off.

We secured his crate with twist ties.

My mom figured that would hold him—for a while.

It did, for now.

We’d find some fool proof way, short of pad locks, to keep our little mischief maker where he was supposed to be.

Still, mom wasn’t angry. She understood—he was curious. Curious about everything: pickle juice, cherries, flour… all of it.

From that day on, the shortbread cookies with maraschino cherries we’d make during the holidays became known as “Demon’s cookies.”

For it was on that day I came up with a nickname that would last his entire life. 

And we kids stopped calling him Demon.

We called him Cookie Monster.

As the years passed, Demon grew into a full-sized raccoon.

He became fiercely attached to my father. If my dad went out of town—especially hunting—Demon would become so upset he would refuse to eat, and sometimes even refuse to go to the bathroom. It got serious enough that we had to take him to the vet.

So Demon started going everywhere with us.

Camping trips. Fishing trips. Road trips.

He came along for all of it—complete with leash, yard stake, food bowls, water bin, bathroom tub, and crate. A twelve-pound raccoon… with about a hundred pounds of gear.

Demon didn’t really have a “job,” aside from being adorable—and occasionally causing chaos.

But my brother and I did discover one very useful skill.

He was incredibly strong—and endlessly curious about objects. One summer, we realized he was excellent at husking coconuts. Normally, it took us kids an hour to break into one. But if we cracked it open slightly and handed it to Demon, he would eventually tear through it for us.

We never husked another coconut again.

Demon also loved snacks—marshmallows, hot dogs, just about anything. His main diet, though, was dog food—Chuck Wagon brand. I’m not sure my parents fully understood what a raccoon’s diet should be. My dad would sometimes bring home frogs, fish, and other things from the Everglades, but dog food was his staple.

Over time… Demon got fat.

I remember my dad wearing him around his neck like a mink stole. He was so chubby that his sides sagged over his back. It was hilarious.

It all sounds wonderful, right? A soft, cuddly, clever little animal with tiny hands and a playful personality.

But at times he wasn’t a pet.

He was a wild animal.

Demon had been neutered, and his vet visits were complicated. Because raccoons are most related to bears, he had to receive both cat and dog rabies vaccines. It was critical, because eventually…

Demon bit everyone.

Sometimes badly.

We never knew why. Maybe he was in a bad mood. Maybe something upset him. Maybe it was just instinct.

One day, my grandmother was simply walking across the yard with a laundry basket. Demon was playing nearby. As she crossed into the radius of his lead, he ran up and bit her deeply in the calf of her right leg.

Another time, he was draped over my father’s shoulders, calm and playful—poking at his ear—when suddenly he began to growl. Not playfully.

He turned and bit my father through the temple and cheek.

Raccoon teeth are long, sharp, and built for tearing meat.

They do their job very well.

My brother was bitten. A neighbor girl was bitten. But the worst injuries were to my mother.

One afternoon, Demon got into a utility refrigerator where my father stored salted deer hides for tanning. He had pulled one out and was chewing on it through the plastic.

Without thinking, my mom reached in and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck—like you would a dog.

That was a mistake.

He turned and bit her repeatedly in the wrist.

Three surgeries later, her hand was never the same. Ligaments were damaged, and movement was permanently affected. She was lucky he hadn’t hit a major artery. Her arm remained bandaged for nearly a year as she went through multiple procedures.

Like I said…

Not a pet.

Second-generation captive-born didn’t matter.

Sometimes, Demon was a sweet, cuddly, teddy-bear of an animal.

Other times, he was something else entirely.

And most of the time… you never knew which one you were going to get.