From the racket emanating from the area beside the garden shed where the composters stand, it was immediately apparent through the darkness of the night that something was awry. It was almost one in the morning, my husband had taken our little dog out last thing before coming up to bed, when he was alerted to a sound volume he immediately identified as possibly a raccoon in trouble.

He took the snow-cleared path over to the composters where the banging-about sounds were coming from and saw, through the light from the small flashlight he always carries in his winter jacket at night, that the composter lid had fallen tightly into the interior. And obviously, below it, was a desperate little animal, trying to make its way to safety with no results whatever for all its vigorous attempts to free itself.

My husband tried to flip the lid, but it wouldn't budge. Finally, he reached over and grasped it firmly by the top ridge, and it surrendered to his pull, coming away from the interior walls of the composter. And before he could blink, the single-minded raccoon, sure to be the juvenile we had seen last week one night on our porch, had erupted in a sudden blast of determined energy out of the confines of the composter, up to the fence beside it, and swiftly away to the security of the nearby ravine.

We've no idea how long the creature had been imprisoned there, how furiously it had continued to battle with the inanimate object that had it captive in its maw. Despite the attraction of all the composter held in kitchen scraps, the raccoon had no wish to remain there in perpetuity; it craved liberty to go and come when it decided it would do so.

We feel badly about its misadventure.  Somehow, its clever mind and opposable thumbs had managed to betray its confidence, and perhaps that will be a lesson learned. Henceforth, however, my husband decided he would tilt the composter cover slightly, leaving it partially open with the hope that the top caving in on a foraging creature would not be repeated.