I think I broke my coon

As you know, my neighbor who for privacy's sake we'll call Bob Reed hasn't lived in his house since his son tried to kiln-dry the upstairs by tossing a blanket onto a space heater while sleeping.
"Didn't they have insurance?" you just asked.
Yes, they did. But when you buy a van and drink like you were born in a brewery, you ain't got much left over for the fixin o' the house.
The city cuts the grass, and we neighbors threw out a lot of his junk. I found out last week that the city has a warrant out for him. Needless to say, we've been Reed-free since '03.

Unfortunately we haven't been rodent free, so I put out the poison.
About 5 months ago I found out that some Raccoons had taken up residence in the sofets of the house. Raccoons = not fun to tangle with, as they tend to fight back, unlike the 9 opossums (ia?) that I've Louisville sluggered into the afterlife. Being a member of the bear family, coons can run fast, see at night (a distinct advantage to me after 6beers), and climb on the roof (very difficult after 6beers).
Well, after chasing and harassing them with a bat for a few months, I'd had it. Last week there were two coons in the tree climbing down. One of them was on the ground running by the time I grabbed a piece of wood from the pile to make chase, with the other descending more slowly. It stopped with its hind legs on the tree and fore limbs on the top of the wooden fence.
I was fired up and ready to beat the hell out of this coon,but when I was about five feet away, for some odd reason I looked at the piece of wood I had grabbed as a weapon. My dumb ass had snagged not the 18" long piece I had thought, but a 12" piece, which meant some of the blood shed would be mine. So instead of a club, it became a projectile hurled as hard as I could from five feet away, basically blasting the coon from its moorings and landing it in the middle of Bob's yard.
I heard a crack, and the animal make a sound that I'm sure was, "What the ever-loving fuck did I ever do to you, you fucking asshole" in coon-ese.
I haven't seen 'em since, which is a good thing, since my cousin loaned me a pellet gun that was made originally for the Bay of Pigs landing and has more steps to loading it than a flintlock. A coon would have to have a smoke and a beer and wait to get shot.