It is always a pleasure to hear her voice.

Even if it almost always means she has work for me to do. Today was no different. As soon as I answered the phone, "I'm so glad you live in [Hometown]."

"Did you know you have a golf course in town?"

Okay, we've had this conversation before. And no, it's not in town. About five miles out.

What have they got now?

She relays this convoluted tale she got from the folks running the restaurant at the golf course. Something about ashes being dumped on a raccoon, and now it's not acting well. Fortunately, there's a callback number.

So I call.

The tale isn't much less convoluted. Gist of it is, there was a raccoon in their dumpster. Looking fine. And then someone unknowingly dumped a box of cold ashes from the barbecue grill inside the dumpster, and now the raccoon's not looking so good.

Okay, I'll be right out.

I am surprised at how crowded the links are. Carts of golfers everywhere. Politely ignored by the fulltime residents of the greens.

As I approach the clubhouse, I see a small mob of people abandon their duties by the barbecue grill and head for the back.

And the dumpster.

And in the dumpster we have... a baby raccoon. Well, not a baby, but a youngster. Probably just kicked off momma. Tucked in a corner, either dying, terrified, or asleep.

Once I get the noose pole on him and lift him up, it is clear "dying" was not on his agenda. Paws and claws flying everywhere. But once he's in the barrel, we're back to the terrified look.

As I can barely find room to turn around to leave, I ask about the crowds. Seems they're having a tournament. For BP.

Ahhhh. British Petroleum. An oil company. No wonder they can afford to have so many people take a weekday off to golf.

So. Now what do I do with a raccoon?

Well, a little farther downstream there's a nice stretch of river with cottonwoods, and no people. No houses, no garbage, no dumpsters.

No way to get into trouble again.

The raccoon won't leave the barrel. I have to dump him out. At first the little fellow is nothing but trembling. From the terror in the dumpster, or the ride in the back of a pickup truck, I do not know. But I suspect momma never taught him about those things. But after a minute or two, he realizes he is free, and in natural environs.

And off he goes.

Before loading up, I stopped to check the insect life attracted to milkweed blossoms...

And some low pink flowers I'd never noticed before.

Probably a weed.