When I was a Cub Scout leader, we would sell used books at the annual Christmas bazaar of the church where we held our meetings. Aside from all the little trinkets, knick-knacks, crafts, and gifties being sold by grey-haired churchgoers, another group of kids were selling stuffed animals by the front door. They were very skilled, very aggressive salespeople, and it was impossible for me to leave without buying something from them. So, for fifty cents, I got myself a raccoon.
Of course, the only name that came to mind for a stuffed raccoon was Rocky. I'm not even sure if I had heard the Beatles song by that point in my life. But the name Rocky Raccoon was somehow etched into my subconscious.
The following summer, at age 19, I took off to Toronto for one week with my older sister in her car. And for some reason, I decided to pack Rocky. He ended up serving as my travelling companion in T.O., as my sister did her thing and Rocky and I did ours.
Every morning, Rocky and I would leave my aunt's house in Mississauga and take the GO Train to downtown Toronto. There, we kept ourselves entertained with a variety of adventures, and I snapped photos of my furry friend all over T-dot, including a great shot of him perched confidently atop an ad poster for a raccoon exterminator.
Rocky even joined me for my first and only attempt at panhandling, beside a Tim Horton's on Yonge street. He offered passersby to swear in French for a dollar. I imagine that my attire was not sufficiently derelict, because all we got for our efforts was a package of supermarket shrimp, which we brought straight to the nearest youth homeless shelter.
"We got this pack of shrimp panhandling on Yonge street," we told the man, "and we don't like shrimp."
"Why don't you take it back to the supermarket and return it for a refund?"
"We don't have the receipt," we replied. "Besides, we don't really need the money. We were just panhandling for fun."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNRH7_Kd5Yc
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