Weird But True

Last year, I saw a possum on our deck a couple of times.  The thing even had the audacity to look at me through my family room window and then poop on my outdoor rug.  And I had just finally stopped obsessing over this wildlife encroachment, too.  

First, let me qualify my experience and position a little.  As I was recently sharing with a friend via email, I really do LOVE wildlife.  When I was 7 years old, my parents bought a 1940s farmhouse about 6 miles north of the little rural town where we lived.  Before this, we’d lived “in town,” in my great-grandmother’s house, where I loved being amid a neighborhood full of friendly but somewhat eccentric old people.  

It would be an understatement to say that I didn’t immediately “take” to the new house and acreage.  But over the years, I came to accept that when I hand-trimmed the grass around the mature trees in the summer, I was likely to find a snake nestled in the crab grass at the base of the trunks of the maple and ash trees.  When we cut and stacked wood, it was inevitable that you’d see mice (and hopefully you wouldn’t let them jump into the basement when you were throwing in the winter’s wood, but that’s another story entirely).  

Encounters with “the wild” were frequent.  For example, I distinctly remember seeing a badger come out of a large hole on the hill in the east pasture.  And I recall the day that I told my dad a skunk was stumbling around near the clothesline, back by the lilac bushes in the heat of a summer morning [NOT a good sign].  And believe it or not, I can still become a little short of breath at the thought of cross-country skiing in the woods a mile or so from home with my mom and little brother, only to stumble upon a large bear and her cubs, who proceeded to amble along next to us for the better part of a quarter-mile to the nearest dirt road.  

So the animals?  In general, their presence doesn’t bother me, and often I find coexisting with them to be interesting and even fun.  Growing up where I did, sharing habitat with countless woodland critters was inherent in signing the mortgage.  Paying property taxes was as clear a reality as dealing with the cute (such as chickadees, who one winter I taught to eat from my hand), the ugly (pine snakes), and even the destructive (red squirrels) creatures of the country.  I appreciate the diversity of nature, the scheme of the world that God created, and I am in awe at the coexistence of marshland and farm fields, the delicate balance between the rodent population and birds of prey, and irony of coyotes’ howling in the moonlight being drowned out by the whistle of the night train.  

BUT.  I live in suburbia now.  Right where I want to be:  not city, not country.  Placidly, carefully placed right between the evils of the two, with the advantages of access to either, whenever I want.  However.  As silly as it may sound, I expect Darwinian principles to be consistently in effect in my back yard, whereby the humans reign supreme.  Because our lot abuts a [very small] woods/swamp/grassland, we see our share of critters.  In fact, I’ve had an on-going battle with a groundhog the size of a 9-month-old baby who lives right at the edge of our lawn.  When I mow grass in the summer, he likes to taunt me by sticking his head out of his hole until the mower is right over his home.  The minute I step 6 inches past his hole, he pops his head back out, and I SWEAR he’s grinning at me.  I’ve been known to carry large rocks in my pockets, just so I can pause and try to bean him in the head. 

And then there’s the possum.  Well, I’d like to think there’s only been one, but realistically, it’s probably at least a family, and more likely a tribe.  Or would it be a herd?  [Yes, I know they don’t live in colonies, per se, but I’m speaking to population, not living habits.]  Last spring, I caught – that is, saw – one on the deck, as referenced in the first paragraph above.  See Exhibit 1, below. 

Intruder, February 2009

Loud noises and vigilance seemed to keep the rascal from returning (allow me to live with my illusions, OK?).  But then yesterday, as I’m reaching over the kitchen table, about 6 inches away from the patio window to hand Kate a container of applesauce for a snack, the creepy pink bulbous-nosed creature is peering in at us.  INTRUDER!  Oh, was my blood boiling. 

So I did what any rational mother protecting her property and her children’s safety would do.  I quickly pulled on outerwear and boots, ran outside, grabbed a shovel from the garage, and headed for my deck.  It was time to take a stand. 

As I was marching to the backyard, I called my husband and calmly described the predicament.  Now he would tell you that I was ranting and raving, but he’s been very stressed at work lately, and I’m sure he’s just overstating a little.  Although… I did stand on the steps of the deck, yelling at the ugly grey critter, who was cowering under our gas grill, while hubby and I were still connected via phone.  But, hey, who WOULDN’T raise a little ruckus, under the circumstance, right? 

Well, as I stood there a few feet away from the possum, the thought of whacking it in front of my children (who were, of course, watching the drama unfold through the family room windows, stunned at the sight of their mother “on the warpath,” wielding a large metal snow shovel, and stomping and yelling) suddenly seemed a little less appealing.  Further, I was rational enough to visualize what a mess I could potentially create, and handling the blood and guts did NOT appeal to me.  Not to mention I don’t think I have enough anti-bacterial cleanser in the house to handle such a job. 

So here we have:  

• Possum on deck, shaking and cowering under gas grill.

• Kate and Amy at the window, watching me in a mixture of angst and puzzlement, with the cat next to them, peering at the possum in curiosity.

• Me within attacking distance of the intruder.

Even I realized that at this point, things weren’t looking too good. 

Well, I can adapt with the best of survivalists, so I talked to my husband some more.  I must say, he really did try to stop laughing at me.  I’m certain his reaction was more like a hysteria one would experience during an unexpected and traumatic event – fleeting and superfluous.  He suggested I call the guy up the street who we know to be an avid hunter. 

Well, this requires me to call my friend (referred to before in this blog as my Sistah) who lives behind him, as I don’t have HunterMan’s phone number.  Not realizing she was out shoe shopping for her little guy, I demand she call HunterMan and send him over at once.  God bless her, she gulped her shock away and immediately took action.  I received a call back from her (I’m still standing guard at the deck gate all this time, mind you – surprising the military hasn’t called upon me to defend our country, with as focused a predator as I can be) asking if I’d get her little guy off the bus with my eldest in 5 minutes while she orchestrated the arrival of HunterMan.  And I did the only thing I could do at that point: I yelled refusal at her.  [Interestingly, after awhile, the possum stopped shaking and seemed to become completely immune to my voice.]  Like I was going to LEAVE MY POST!?!?  Puh – leezzzz!!

While waiting for HunterMan, I made good use of my time by texting my hubby permission to purchase a weapon more suitable than a shovel, so I can handle such matters on my own, without having to rely on outside reinforcements.  The man who doesn’t like texting wrote a whole two sentences in response, something amounting to “I told you we needed this” and “I have it all picked out already.”  Now that I know he has mastered the art of texting, which he’s largely avoided thus far, we have a whole new communication channel open to us.  I guess at least one good thing came out of this possum occupation situation. 

Anyway.  Within about 10 minutes from my last phone call with my Sistah, HunterMan and his wife arrived.  HunterMan valiantly, efficiently, and unemotionally took care of business, and once again, our little corner of suburbia is possum free.  For now. 

Casualty, January 2010

I can only hope that the dirty-rotten groundhog at the edge of our lot  — and any of the possum’s relatives – were watching.