Party Crashers: a Central Park wildlife story

Photo by Eleanor Tauber

Party Crashers

On a fine September night two or so years ago three raccoons dined among a crowd of gussied-up bird lovers at the Central Park Boathouse. The occasion was the New York City Audubon's grand benefit party honoring Pale Male & Lola. Appearing in the bushes behind the Boathouse’s outdoor terrace at about 9:45 p.m., the rather under-dressed party-crashers consumed large quantities of chicken and pasta that were furtively offered them by several invited guests.

Though the raccoons ate noisily, their benefactors managed to close the terrace doors, thus keeping the animals’ little growls of bestial contentment from disturbing the benefit honorees, Mary Tyler Moore and Parks Commissioner Adrian Benepe whose prepared remarks were being delivered at just that time.

The thick-tailed, black-masked members of the Procyonidae family, one that also includes kinkajous, coatis, cacomistles, ringtails and olingos, are year-round residents of Central Park. They are far from uncommon there. Some officials suggest that up to fifty raccoons permanently live in the park, and it may be twice as many. Nobody’s ever figured out a way to do a raccoon count.

Five years earlier more than twenty-five raccoons had been found dead in the northern part of the park. Necropsies revealed multiple lacerations and puncture wounds, probably inflicted by dogs. There were rumors of two large, muscular dogs, possibly Rottweilers or Doberman Pinschers, ranging through the North Woods. Once, again according to rumor, the dogs were seen running out of the park and into a waiting car, suggesting that a pair of vicious dogs were being loosed in the park to kill for the amusement of their sadistic owners.

Why come up with this bizarre scenario? Perhaps the killers were simply feral dogs, strays, Yet none of the park’s population of stray dogs, known well by Parks Department workers, was deemed capable of winning a fight with a strong, aggressive fifteen to twenty pound raccoon.

It is known that raccoons will savagely defend themselves when attacked. But they pose no danger to humans. There has never been a case of a human attacked by raccoons in Central Park, It is as unlikely an event as a squirrel biting the hand that feeds [and feeds and feeds] him. Tourists in particular are charmed to come across a big, wild, woodland creature like a raccoon in the heart of a big city. Fortunately, the dog attacks ceased as mysteriously as they started, and the species seems to have bounced back to its normal number in the park.

The three raccoons who attended the Audubon benefit at the Boathouse seemed to like the chocolate petit fours and the miniature cheesecakes from the dessert table best. They picked up each little pastry with their hands, and delicately placed it in their mouths, a behavior described in an authoritative text, Walker’s Mammals of the World, as characteristic of the species [the manual dexterity, that is, not the consumption of goodies.]

“Procyon has a well-developed sense of touch...The hands are regularly used almost as skillfully as monkeys use theirs,” say the authors of Walker’s Mammals [none of them, oddly enough, named Walker] adding an observation that makes a lie of the raccoon’s scientific name, Procyon lotor. The Latin words mean “washing bear”. Yet the book goes on to say: “Although raccoons have sometimes been observed to dip food in water, especially under captive conditions, the legend that they actually wash their food is without foundation.”

The raccoon’s versatile hands—one might more properly call them front feet—are a remarkable adaptation that allows these highly successful animals to reach into small spaces or turn over stones while looking for prey, as well as to catch and hold onto small animals, fish and a variety of invertebrates out in the open. Their clever hands also enable raccoons to perform the single act they are most famous [or infamous] for in the human community: opening garbage cans no matter how securely closed. Raccoons don’t have to work too hard at this in Central Park. Most of the park’s garbage cans are easily opened. After dark, raccoons are often seen climbing in and out of them, carrying booty off to eat on nearby branches. Sometimes a couple of animals will work in concert to knock a large garbage container over. Then they can dine on the spot with the greatest of ease. They just crawl in and chow down.

Back at the Boathouse terrace, after the three bandit-masked, ring-tailed, pointy-muzzled members of the order Carnivora had eaten a truly awesome number of rich little confections, some party guests were concerned for the animals’ health. These fears were groundless. Boathouse employees reported that the three were seen again at another party the evening after the Audubon benefit. They were in fine fettle, the men reported, though they seemed a little peckish if not downright hungry.