I rescued NAWTY when she was just 2 days old. Tiny. Helpless. Barely viable. The kind of rescue where survival is uncertain and every day that she lived was a small miracle.
For nearly 7 years, she was a relentless fighter—surviving distemper, poisoning, and attacks in the wild. Seven years of defying the odds. Of choosing life again and again when death would have been easier. Of fighting through illnesses and injuries that would have killed other raccoons. Of being relentless in her determination to survive.
She even returned home to give birth to her babies, trusting me completely. That’s what trust looks like. When a wild animal chooses to give birth in your presence. When she decides that the safest place for her most vulnerable moment is with you. When she trusts you with her babies—the most precious things in her world.
The distemper left neurological damage, making her non-releasable, so she lived indoors with me for 5 years. Not in a cage. Not as a kept animal. But as a companion. As family. We adapted our lives to her needs. She adapted to indoor life. And for five years, we lived together in a partnership that transcended species.
We became soulmates, utterly dependent on each other. That’s not exaggeration. That’s the truth of what happens when you rescue a two-day-old raccoon and she survives against all odds and chooses you as family. You become soulmates. You understand each other. You depend on each other in ways that people without this kind of bond can’t fully comprehend.
Her last night, she fell asleep on my chest. Like she’d done hundreds of times before. Nothing unusual. Just Nawty, choosing her favorite sleeping spot, curling up against the heartbeat she’d known since she was two days old.
When I woke, she looked up at me, licked my chin once, took a few deep breaths, and was gone. Peacefully. Gently. With the person she trusted most. Looking up one last time. One lick to say goodbye. A few deep breaths. And then gone.
My heart is shattered. I’m completely lost without her. Seven years of constant companionship. Seven years of being soulmates. Seven years of utter dependence on each other. And now she’s gone. And the space she occupied—physically, emotionally, spiritually—is empty.
The photograph shows them together—man and raccoon, smiling, happy, connected in ways that photos can only hint at. This was before the end. Before that last night on his chest. Before she looked up and licked his chin and took those final breaths.
I rescued NAWTY when she was just 2 days old. That’s how this started. A rescue. An act of compassion for a tiny creature who wouldn’t have survived without intervention. But it became so much more than rescue. It became partnership. Family. Soulmates.
For nearly 7 years, she was a relentless fighter. People think of raccoons as trash pandas, nuisances, masked bandits. But Nawty was a fighter. Survived distemper—which kills most raccoons. Survived poisoning—someone deliberately tried to kill her. Survived attacks in the wild when she was still trying to live outside. Kept fighting, kept surviving, kept choosing life.
She even returned home to give birth to her babies, trusting me completely. After all her time in the wild, after establishing her own territory, when it came time for the most vulnerable moment of her life, she came home. Came back to the person who’d rescued her at two days old. Trusted him with her babies. Said through that action: you’re safe. You’re family. This is where we come when we need protection.
The distemper left neurological damage. That’s why she stayed. Not because she was kept, but because she couldn’t survive in the wild anymore. The disease had taken that from her. So she lived indoors. Adapted. Made a life that wasn’t what nature intended but was full of love and safety and companionship.
We became soulmates, utterly dependent on each other. He needed her as much as she needed him. This wasn’t one-sided. This wasn’t a pet owner keeping an animal. This was mutual dependence. Two souls who found each other and decided that together was better than apart.
Her last night, she fell asleep on my chest. The familiar spot. The place she’d chosen thousands of times over seven years. The heartbeat she knew. The smell that meant safety. She fell asleep there not knowing it would be the last time.
When I woke, she looked up at me, licked my chin once, took a few deep breaths, and was gone. That’s how it ended. Not with trauma or panic or suffering. But with a look. A lick. A few breaths. And peace. She died in the safest place she knew, with the person she loved most, saying goodbye in the only way she could.
My heart is shattered. I’m completely lost without her. Seven years is a long time. Long enough that life without her doesn’t make sense. Long enough that her absence is a physical ache. Long enough that utterly dependent wasn’t hyperbole—it was reality. And now she’s gone, and he has to figure out how to live with that.
Nawty was a relentless fighter. Survived impossible odds. Chose life again and again. Came home to give birth. Trusted completely. Became soulmates with the person who rescued her. And died peacefully, looking up at him one last time, licking his chin, taking a few deep breaths, and letting go.
That’s the story. That’s seven years condensed into a few paragraphs that can’t possibly capture everything—all the small moments, all the fights she won, all the times she chose to come home, all the nights she slept on his chest, all the ways they understood each other without words.
My heart is shattered. I’m completely lost without her. But she died peacefully. Looking up. Saying goodbye. Trusting, to the very end, that she was safe. That she was loved. That the person holding her was home.