I love nature.
Despite the fact that toads really freak me out. Or, that a well placed mosquito bite makes me
welt up and itch like crazy. Never mind
that I’m allergic to bees and a sting can leave me looking like the elephant
man for a week. I’m also highly
sensitive to poison ivy in my old age and even a cat lounging about in my
flowerbed can give it to me, leaving me scratching myself bloody. High mold in the forecast makes me feel a bit
miserable, but not as much as taking a few Benadryl does.
Nonetheless, nature rocks.
I grew up on a farm, or what you could best consider
a farm. We had a barn, some chickens,
cats, dogs, and the occasional loose cow from the neighbor’s house wading in
our pond. Even though we lived out in
the country on a couple acres surrounded by farm land, I didn’t exactly get a
lot of experience with what I’d consider wild animals. The Bassett hound we had for many of my
younger years dragged home about anything he found dead, but that didn’t
exactly fall under the category of dealing with wild animals since they failed
to exist on this earthly plane. Their
stench could seemingly wake the dead, but that hardly counted. I honed my skills killing leopard frogs with
rocks along the side of the pond (no, I don’t know why I did this, but I didn’t
need a slingshot), watched the deer in the morning in the field across the
road, and occasionally saw snakes knotted together in a rope-like fashion in the
small trees along the railroad tracks.
But, for whatever reason, the wildlife seemed to
keep its distance. Well, up until last
year.
It’s odd at best.
We live in a small town.
Population 250 if the neighbor is having a big party. It’s one of those small, rural towns that no
longer even has a gas station. That
ended in the early 90s when the powers that be said the underground tanks had
to meet certain standards and the mom and pop businesses couldn’t afford to
meet those specifications. And while man
cannot live by bread alone, business also couldn’t survive by selling bread (and
milk) alone. There’s no stoplight. No stop sign if you come through on either of
the main roads.
Blink and you miss it. That is unless you happen to be a possum. There's some sort of blinking beacon or welcoming committee for possums.
Last year, two possums on two separate occasions
greeted me at the back door. I must
admit that the first time I thought wow, that’s one big cat, here kitty kitty,
oh great day in the morning, that’s no cat, that’s a freakin’ possum. Okay, so maybe I cleaned up that thought
process a wee bit for the sake of a reader, but I honestly thought at first
glance it was a very large cat. I remain
thankful I didn’t reach down and attempt to pet it and invite it in to the
house. In my forty plus years, most of
which were rural living in Indiana, that was the closest I’d ever come to a
living marsupial of this sort. I’ve seen
plenty smooshed on the road this time of the year in their quest to find a
mate, populate, and take over. I figured
it came to the back door to dine on some Meow Mix, and from the looks of its
well fed physique, it’d been high dining for some time.
A few nights later, its friend showed up. Even with the encouragement of my pink
softball bat, it didn’t want to leave the premises. A stubborn possum isn’t exactly what you want
at your backdoor when you have cats and dogs.
As I said, I love nature, but at my back door baring its teeth? Not so much.
When the oldest child moved home a few months ago, a
nearly two year old blue tick coon hound was in tow. This dog will never be hunting material. It’d become apparent the poor soul lived a
rough life when he got him. His neck was
raw from being tied up. He cowered when
someone reached down to pet him. A
motorcycle backfired one day last week and I about had to coax him down from a
tree. He’s a good and loving boy,
though, and content to be an outside dog.
We built him a good sized pen that he shares with a few outside cats
without too much complaining. He lets me
know when things aren’t as they should be outside, which happened to be the
case at 12:50 this morning.
I stumbled through the kitchen not overly thrilled
at the prospect of going outside when I much rather preferred sleeping. These people I live with could sleep through
a marching band deposited into our house riding a freight train via a
tornado. I personally cannot,
unfortunately. I scanned the dog’s pen
area with the flashlight on my cell phone while I scratched his ears over the
fence not seeing anything out of the ordinary.
He paced a few times nervously, stopped, and then began wagging his
tail. He repeated the process a few
times, trying to draw my attention, maybe with a little pride, to an area just
a few feet to his right.
I looked down and thought oh great, he’s killed a
cat. Note once again, my brain went to
filling in the logical blank with cat lying on the ground. Nope.
It wasn’t a cat. It was another
dang possum. This time it was much
smaller.
In the wee hours of the morning, I don’t proclaim to
be a genius. At any hour of the day, I
don’t profess to be the swiftest person.
There the possum was in a position I wouldn’t assess as a natural one for
something alive. Its mouth was
slight agape. As was mine. It looked like the dog had worked it over a
bit, and logically, I assumed it was dead or at least stunned. At no point did I think it was merely…well,
you guessed it…playing possum. Insert a
forehead slap here.
I tried to wake the oldest kid, who only responded
with, “Awesome,” when I told him his dog got a possum. I knew better than to wake the husband who
had to be up at 4 a.m. The youngest was
still out lollygagging about, so I called him and requested his assistance in
possum removal. I watched the possum for
signs of life, and sure enough, it was still breathing.
I guess a little adrenaline gets the brain cells
bumping around and functioning, and after I spied a five gallon bucket used for
sitting on while visiting with the dog, I surmised that I could trap the possum
under the bucket until my back up arrived.
I carefully opened the gate, grabbed the bucket, and inched my way
towards what I assumed was a stunned possum.
He wasn’t stunned. At least not
until what happened next.
I don’t know who was more surprised when it sprang
to life and I screamed. People who I’ve
told this story today tell me that possums don’t move that quickly. I’m here to tell you that perhaps they don’t
normally unless the scenario involves five gallon buckets and a middle-aged
woman’s screams.
That thing boogied.
The funny thing is, however, is that it didn’t
consider me and my bucket and scream enough of a threat to play dead. Nope.
It wasn’t sticking around to see what kind of crazy came next, I
suppose.
By that time, the kid arrived home and my nocturnal
screech woke the neighbor. We’ve had a
lot a trouble with punks stealing gas and breaking into cars, so a renegade
possum was a welcome troublemaker, all things considered.
I still have to wonder about myself. How many times did I accuse my kids of
playing possum or used the phrase?
Clearly, there was a possum in all his glory doing what possums do and I
was too stupid to realize it.
It wasn’t just the possum, though. I came back inside only to find out that the
husband had heard the dog grumbling and carrying on, and had heard me go
outside, too. He just pretended to be asleep
so he didn’t have to get up and help me.
Ahh, yeah, playing possum. Maybe
I’ll try it sometime.
