My mother used to feed the damned things in her back yard, but she finally gave it up when the crowd grew too large and demanding. If she was late putting out the chow, they'd hang on her wrought iron security gate by the back door, shaking and rattling it to get her attention. They'd even try to turn the damned doorknob.
I have no use for raccoons, apart from funny story material for the homespun southern humorists.
"Knock him out, John!"
Did your mother’s raccoons come walking on their hind legs like I described?