The first bite came on First Avenue. The second on Scotch Plains Avenue. The unseen predator—a raccoon, possibly rabid, moving through Westfield like a shadow with teeth—is responsible for biting three residents, according to Health Officer Megan Avallone.
The Westfield Regional Health Department has issued a warning sharp enough to cut through the usual suburban complacency: stay inside. Watch your pets. Lock your trash. The woods have come calling, and they are not friendly.
The raccoon is still out there. Somewhere.
For seven days since the first attack and five since the last, Westfield has waited—traps set, streets watched, the humid summer air thick with unease.
The Westfield Regional Health Department, working with Animal Control, has turned the town into a grid of suspicion, following up on every reported sighting, every rustle in the bushes.
So far, nothing. No fresh attacks. No confirmed sightings of the culprit. Just the gnawing uncertainty of a predator that may already be dead—or may still be moving through the shadows.
Rabies doesn’t linger in its host for long. The furious stage—the madness, the aggression—burns fast.
An animal in its grip typically dies within days. That clock is ticking. But until a body is found, the warnings stand.
Residents are told to stay vigilant. A raccoon out in daylight isn’t automatically a threat—they forage when they must—but one stumbling, drooling, or snarling without provocation is a walking death sentence.
The police line (908-789-4000) remains open for reports. A dead raccoon, if found, should be called in to the Health Department at 908-789-4070 immediately.
Every trash can secured, every pet kept close, every pair of eyes scanning the trees is another layer of defense.
The math is simple, brutal. Rabies is 100% fatal once symptoms appear. But it’s also 100% preventable with swift action.
Vaccinate your pets. If bitten, act fast. Going to the hospital—instead of trying home remedies—is the only answer.
Westfield isn’t a town used to being hunted. Westfield is not a place accustomed to outbreaks. Its streets are lined with trimmed hedges and sidewalk chalk, not warning signs.
But rabies does not respect zip codes. It doesn’t care about property values. It only cares about warm blood and open flesh.
But for now, the raccoon—dead or alive—still holds the advantage. The traps are empty. The streets are quiet. And the question hangs heavy in the July heat: Is this over? Or just waiting to strike again?