Things Happen in Threes

A co-worker was bemoaning something disastrous that had happened at her house this past weekend—hot water tank implosion or something. What caught my ear was that this was the third such trauma for her in as many days. I don’t put a lot of stock in that business of movie stars dying in threes, etc.
A couple nights ago we heard lots of scratching and squeaky noises along with something being banged around on our deck. We peered through the blind to see three young raccoons reenacting the World Cup Championships, using an empty whicker basket. There was a fair amount of head-butting going on, too.
Then last night we heard some scratching sounds near the bird feeders. With the aide of a flashlight we watched three young skunks dining on that expensive stuff that’s supposed to repel critters like skunks and raccoons. With this trio there was a lot of butt-butting which I feared might lead to something less pleasant than the smell of victory or agony of de feet. We cranked the windows shut and turned on the air conditioner.
And this morning, Susan calls me away from my delicious bowl of oatmeal and Kim Perez on the Weather Channel to see the final threesome. The raccoons had returned. Soccer, err, football, was not on the agenda. Today it was high-wire acrobatics. Larry, Curley and Mo had climbed the pole holding our feeder array. All were swinging from the feeders, acting like break-dancers trying to outdo each other with ever more elaborate moves. About the time Mo was going into his hand-stand head-spin I rushed out, doing my best imitation of a pterodactyl.
The crowed roared as the guys flipped, twisted and basically fell all over each other trying to get down.
No curtain call attempted. They dashed under the deck where, I’m afraid, they will eventually meet up with Huey, Dewy and Pewy. We can hardly wait for the time all six to provide act number four, which, when divided by eight hours of restless sleep, will equal yet another three.