The other day I got a DM from my youngest daughter. It was a video of a strange-looking raccoon, a lady’s voice narrating, “What am I seeing?” Then the text caption: “a small little deformed and bedraggled beloved raccoon.” I watched, a little confused about why my daughter sent it my way. And then, as the dwarfed raccoon scurried across the screen, the next frame was captioned “Meet ‘Jimothy,’ Seattle’s Local Legend.”
By now I’ve learned of the absolute adoration the nation has for this strange creature. But on first viewing, I noticed my insides getting irritated. In fact sometimes I can’t help but feel a little cheated by this “Jimothy” phenomenon.
Part of me feels angry — Jimothy belongs to us — while another part believes it’s a sign and a reminder of our love.
My partner passed away 18 months ago. He’s a nickname guy. Had one for all the people he loved. Mine was Juanita Bonita, later simply Juanita. His name is James, Jim, Jimmy. My adult kids, as a way to endear him, coined Jimothy. They banter now over who came up with it; regardless, Jim grew to love it. Around them, he’d call himself the name. He’d sign cards, texts, laugh at how silly it sounded.
Images of the short-spined raccoon spreading across the internet invoke a strange mix of emotions for me. Part of me feels angry — Jimothy belongs to us — while another part believes it’s a sign and a reminder of our love.
Jim was a believer of signs. We live in Northwest Montana. Nature surrounds us. Jim loved the wild Turkeys. “There’s Greta,” he’d say, looking out our kitchen window. “Greta Gobbler — get it?” He’d laugh and hurry outside, making sure she had enough black-seed in the feeder. He named the turkeys Hazel and Greta. I fell in love with the smaller birds. “Did you know robins mate for life?” I’d tell him, referring to the robins that frequented our property. “The male robin keeps watch over the nest while the female takes a break.” Jimothy, being the protector of creatures and me, also liked this information.
Along with Greta Gobbler, we made up stories about the Stellar’s Jay. How they seemed to take on attributes of people we’ve encountered — endearing or not. We imagined the Stellars as quality control attorneys swooping into every birdfeeder, scarfing up all the good seeds, ensuring things were up to snuff. They soon became Jay Stellar Esquire. One spring we encountered a skunk that had made a home on our porch. The removal was something onlyLucy and Ethel could concoct.
After our Jimothy passed, all the known creatures were gentle reminders to me of our shared life. A male Robin perches outside my bedroom window. I have never found his female — another sign from beyond, I think. I’m the female being watched. “Hi Jim!” I say, routinely.
We had a lot of plans that went awry due to the unbeknownst cancer growing rapidly in his liver.
We had a lot of plans that went awry due to the unbeknownst cancer growing rapidly in his liver. I think about the trips that were canceled, the concert tickets that left empty-seats, bike rides that never happened and countless missed dinner plans. He tried to hide his pain. I would notice him holding his stomach and wincing. He’d play it off as minor, but I could see his gut ached by his greying color. We needed to lay low. I’d remind him we had an entire lifetime to adventure together.
He’d spent the year battling prostate cancer. His PSA was zero — he’d beaten it! We were sure this gut ache was residual from radiation. I became hyper-vigilant over his dairy intake, convinced it was the Greek yogurt. I gave him shots of charcoal that turned his lips black, along with probiotics. While he focused on regaining his health, I handled the lion’s share of our daily life. His guilt around this was not easy on him.
Through his pain, Jimothy never complained. Friends and neighbors had no idea; they shared after he passed, he seemed like the same ole him. He’d muscle through and tell me not to worry. He was resilient and strong, and hated disappointing others.
When we’d first met, Jim used to comment about my long torso and straight posture. We joked that if he kept slouching, soon he’d be a hunchback knuckle dragger. A memory I only recently recalled as I watched raccoon Jimothy scurry across my Google Search. Another sign — a reminder. He’d be proud that the Mariners now have a mascot bearing his pseudonym, even though he was a Red Sox fan. Who doesn’t love baseball, and Jimothy?
On December 8, 2024, I rushed him to the hospital. He was struggling to breathe; his heart was failing. We live in a rural area. Driving him to the local hospital was quicker than calling an ambulance.
Jimothy was always everyone’s favorite. We were certain my own mother liked him better than me. “How’d we get Jim?” She’d often ask. After Jim was admitted into the ICU, the hospitalist shared with me that the ambulance transport from the regional hospital had called and said, “We’re bringing in your new favorite patient. Protect him!” Jimothy being Jimothy even in his darkest moments.
Jimothy joked with hospital staff while they all fell in love with him, fighting to give him every possible chance for recovery. I watched them wipe tears away as they’d walk out, knowing something we weren’t ready to face. A specialist showed us an ultrasound of his liver. “There’s more tumor than liver.”
For three days we believed our love was strong enough to beat whatever this was. He was full of so much life; we still had so much ahead of us.
We held one another. He told me I saved his life, and that whatever happened, he gave me his whole heart. I couldn’t imagine that saving him brought us here. I asked him what he wanted to do in terms of diagnosis. “We’re gonna fight like hell,” he said on Tuesday. But by Wednesday he was incoherent. Hope was just a word.
On Thursday morning he passed. His best friend and I were by his side. The staff gathered as we played his favorite Jethro Tull song, Elegy.
The line of nurses and doctors came in paying their respects. His impact palpable. Jimothy was larger than life. For Jimothy, everyone else in the room was the star. He tipped service people more than what is logical, listened harder, and made others feel seen. He was the best person in every room
Maybe Jimothy is a universal idea. Jimothy is hope personified. A reminder to live presently. I used to say to ours, “I wish we’d met sooner.” He’d readily answer, “I’m just glad that we did!”
The raccoon is living with a deformed spine and birth defect. Ours received a diagnosis of a poorly differentiated endocrine cancer, unsurvivable at his stage. Both hell-bent on living life fully in the moment.
Yesterday I opened my social media and saw an ad for Seattle–Tacoma International Airport reading Nonstop to Jimothy. I’d take that flight.
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