Update: Captain Trashbeard has become bolder.

I made the mistake of opening the front door tonight.

Who was standing there waiting to greet me?

Not my children.

Not my husband.

Captain Blackbeard or Captain Trashbeard himself, i’ll let you decide

And not only did he not run away when he saw me, this fuzzy little outlaw actually started walking toward me like we were old friends.

Sir...

We have never met.

Who in the world has been feeding you?

I understand raccoons aren't exactly known for making good decisions. They're called trash pandas for a reason. But this guy has absolutely zero healthy fear of humans.

Even my nieces and nephews have more self-preservation than this raccoon.

Which brings me to Lucy.

My thirteen-year-old, eighty-pound dog.

She's basically a giant teddy bear now. She's deaf, arthritic, and spends most of her day perfecting the art of napping.

Still...

I figured if I unexpectedly came face-to-face with a raccoon on the porch, maybe—just maybe—she'd spring into action.

Bark.

Growl.

Stand between us.

Something.

Anything.

Nope.

She just stood there.

Staring.

Like she was watching two strangers have an awkward conversation in the grocery store.

Meanwhile, I'm mentally preparing for what I assumed would become the world's dumbest obituary.

"Local woman survives military moves, raising two autistic children, and hauling five wheelbarrows of rock uphill... only to be defeated by a raccoon named Trashbeard while her dog quietly observed."

Thirteen years of loyalty.

And this is how she lets me go.

Not in a blaze of glory.

Not protecting the family.

Just silently witnessing my potential downfall.

Anyone who's had an old dog knows the look: "I acknowledge that there is a problem. I have chosen not to make it my problem."

Dogs, am I right?