Are Raccoons Dangerous?

My husband is from the city. The big city. The largest city in his country, to be exact. This means he doesn't know about a variety of subjects that someone who grew up on a farm knows about.

We were living in my parents basement while we looked for a house. Chris had only been gone for 5 minutes and I was just falling back asleep when my cell phone rang. I am sure I said, "Jesus." Because that's generally what I say. I answered.
"What?"
"Are raccoons dangerous?"
"What? Why?"
"There is one here in the garage."

This was actually, sort of, my fault. I had come in late from dance class and my parents had left the garage door up and light on so I could see. It is freaking dark where they leave.
I noticed that the dogs biscuits were turned over and really hoped that the dog had done it or they had been knocked over on accidents, but just in case the chupacabra was still around I ran in and put the door down. So, I in my infinite scaredycatness gave the raccoon a safe, warm place to sleep.

After we go the raccoon out, we surveyed the damage.
He pooped on my husband's car.
Took all the DVDs out of a box of DVDs that came out of my mom's car. He had already seen Finding Nemo.
He played with a toy tractor.
And tried to weed eat but broke the handle off trying to get it started.

Find the purple ball, now look right.