Dangerous?

He's cute. Even scary. But is he dangerous?

He’s cute. In that scruffy, late-night-alley sort of way. A little scary too, if you stop and really look at the face. But dangerous?

Last week, walking through Stanley Park, we ran into a small crowd—thirty people or so—clustered together, phones raised like votive candles. I eased my way in to see what the excitement was about.

“This is so dangerous,” a woman said, loudly, as if danger responds well to volume. Others chimed in from the perimeter. “Disease!” “Teeth!” “Mayhem!”

The cause of all this concern was a raccoon.

He was perched on top of a garbage can, calmly sorting through human leftovers with the focus of a professional. Banana peel, no. French fries, maybe. Something wrapped in paper—definitely. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing, which, in fairness, he probably did.

I’m feeling a bit under the weather myself, but let me be clear: we did not swap spit. I was not scratched. I was not bitten. There was no hand-to-paw contact, no raccoon embrace, no shared moment of intimacy. I took a few photos from a sensible distance, the kind that still allows for a quick retreat should the animal decide to leap for a tourist’s face or neck.

Yes, he looked a little scary. Raccoons often do. They wear masks. That alone should make anyone cautious. Still, he also looked healthy—alert, steady, uninterested in us beyond the fact that we were standing between him and his dinner.

And yes, wildlife can be dangerous. Some animals carry disease. Some have teeth. These are facts. But this is also the price of living in cities where “nature” is usually curated, fenced, or neatly labeled. When the real thing shows up—uninvited, unfiltered—we lean in. We take photos. We tell ourselves it’s worth the risk, because it’s unusual.

Was it worth it? I don’t know. Probably.

I didn’t see any bears.