The emergency room nurses didn’t know what to make of us. My father swayed in pain, clutching a bloody bath towel to his forearm. I still had catcher’s gear on, shin pads and all. My little sister Kaylee stood frozen from the entire incident, still wearing a bright orange life preserver.

The nurse unwrapped the towel, exposing the wound. “Let’s see what we’ve got, Mr. Gartner.” The blood bubbled like black tar. “Yeah, that’s going to require stitches.” My father grumbled, kicking the examination table with his heel. “And of course, a tetanus shot.” That sent him into a fit of curse words. All because of corned beef.

It was the only dinner my father knew how to make. Unfortunately, it was the only dinner I refused to eat. The briny, sinewy brisket sat around the house long after its consumption. I repeatedly told my sister that if she licked the wallpaper she could taste it. That trick worked once.

At the table, I sawed into the meat, slipping the cuts under the table and into my pocket. I even asked for second helpings to throw off any suspicion, later depositing it all in the garage. In the cold dark night, like a criminal, I stuffed the pieces down into garbage can, and after noticing the meat stains on my shorts stuffed those down as well.

The night air was cold, especially since the garage door was broken. So I gave the pile one more press with all my weight and ran inside to change.

The doctor feebly held back his smile as my father described the resulting story; the scrambling for makeshift protection, the cardboard box he thought would capture the beast, and the tenacity of a creature to defend what I was more than willing to give up.

“Raccoons will do that. They’re not finicky about the quality of meat,” the doctor laughed. My father didn’t.