Eureka! I found it. The gold standard for deciding who’s a real local and who’s a mainland transplant. No more arguing over how long you’ve lived here or whether you’re a real Conch, freshwater Conch or a random shell bought at the souvenir kiosk.
It goes like this: Describe a raccoon.
Me (a bona fide mainland transplant): About the size of a bear cub, gray with black markings and mask, fangs for teeth, runs in fearless packs of a dozen or so. Eyes like bike reflectors, removes tie-down chains with a single swipe and knocks over a 50-gallon trash bin, marauds at night and comes with a warning: If I’m on your deck at noon, check for rabies.
Keys local: Cutest little bugger. Friendly, too. ‘Bout the size of my housecat. Honey-colored with dark brown masks. Kinda skinny. Enjoys daytime romps and delights in water sports. Comes as a single or maybe as a pair or trio. Does enjoy a good trashcan skirmish, but equally happy swiping up sea creatures along the edges of mangroves. Comes with a gentle suggestion: Don’t feed me people snacks or I’ll become your best friend. Including leaping from the shoreline into your boat.
Meet Smuggler, the Torch Key raccoon who has made the Mud Keys home. Torch Key raccoons, which are found from Big Pine to Key West, are one of two raccoon subspecies native to the Florida Keys. The other, the Key Vaca raccoon, prefers the Middle and sorta-Upper Keys. Neither remotely resembles cousins on the mainland — with one exception. All raccoons will eat pretty much anything on the menu. Picky they are not.
Raccoons of the Keys | Happy little beggars in the mangroves
Like all living things that decide to make the Keys home, the raccoons have adapted. They’re excellent swimmers and divers, intelligent and happy to make your acquaintance. Some prefer the rocks and hammocks — or your backyard far from shore. They’re comfortable masterfully switching from climbing high in the mangrove trees to swimming from island to island. They love seafood for lunch and have figured out how to find enough fresh water to hydrate. Rainy season is a boon.
The Smithsonian Institution highlighted the Keys raccoon subspecies as early as 1930, when E.W. Nelson chronicled his search for the “rumored” tiny raccoons. Nelson’s adventures are a 23-page monograph, complete with drawings, skull measurements and a decided fascination with Keys habitat, trappers and the price of pelts. (His report is also a peek into the old days when mangroves thrived and getting here was a weeks-long adventure.)
Smuggler was on the beach to greet us last week when Ranger Ed and I along with four friends pulled up on Smuggler’s Beach in the Mud Keys. Transplanted mainlanders we all are, hence our first response: “Awww, is that a raccoon? Should we call Fish & Wildlife? He’s so little. He must be lost and hungry. Maybe the storms blew him out here? Oh, wait, don’t go near him. He might have rabies, because raccoons don’t come out during the day.”
It went on like that for a while, until one of us said she had two of them in her Key West backyard. The Lazy Dog captain, a veteran Keys local, explained matter-of-factly that “Uh, no, he lives here.” Then we entertained ourselves for 45 minutes by recounting a dozen “raccoons I have known” tall tales, while casting glances at Smuggler noodling on the best path to onboard snacks. And I, being the obsessive “what does Google say,” went down the research rabbit hole, which is where I found the Smithsonian’s raccoon dude, Nelson.
So what’s the point? Two actually. First, don’t feed the raccoons. They’re not hungry or thirsty, just cute little beggars, like a housecat manipulating people for treats after breakfast. Feeding them your sandbar Oreos or sharing a water bottle disrupts the natural order of things. They’re fine hanging in the mangroves; been doing that for generations. (While I’m at it, don’t feed the Key West chickens, the Key deer, the marsh rabbit, iguanas, possums or other wildlife.)
Second, don’t assume all raccoons are alike. People either.
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