Possum

So last night after Amelia went to bed, I went down into the basement and into the garage. I turned slightly to my left to push the button to raise the garage door and then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A possum! I could have reached to my right and touched it. S/he was sitting on top of a [clean, new] garbage can that I use to store the hand-me-downs that Amelia has yet to grow into. There are a few other things around that garbage can, like a small metal bookshelf and various detritus that tends to collect in a garage when one lives in a house for ten years. There were a few things on top of the garbage can, too, and this little guy just curled up and apparently called it home. I think he may have darted in when I came home earlier from a playdate for Amelia & Livia. My garage door only stays open long enough for me to get into the garage. With the cold we've had, I don't even leave it open while I walk around the car.

After spotting Mr. Possum (let's go ahead and assign a gender to keep it simple), he did not try to run or attack. If anything he acted nonchalant about my presence. I, on the other hand, ran to the end of the car and hopped into the car since he didn't seem to be making a beeline for underneath the car and I didn't have to worry about my ankles. I backed out, flashed my lights (yes, I know their blind, but I think they can see a little) and then stopped. I got out, threw a few of Amelia's almost empty containers of bubbles at it and still no budging. So then I threw a small cardboard box right on top of the possum and still no movement! At this point, he looked buried so I approached and pulled away the clear bag of clothes that was in front of the possum. At this, he bared his teeth. Oh, what a friendly gesture. Apparently the possum was staying no matter what.

I went ahead with my errand of running to get a key to the church to get some things for the bereaved family, and asked their opinion - which was to call the police. Since I was about three blocks from the police station at that point I decided to stop by, but no one was there. So I came home and called them and was told, "Ma'am, we don't do possums. You'll need to call Animal Control." Animal Control's answering machine told me to call the sheriff's department which took my number and told me someone from Animal Control would call me soon. In the meantime, I called my sister-in-law, a vet, and she said Mr. Possum was probably not rabid. While rabies was a possibility he was more likely sick from something else, which is why he wasn't moving. My concern was that he didn't seem afraid of me and he wouldn't leave. Since the garage is part of my house, I was not going to just wait for him to decide to leave.

We've had a scandal in our county recently with Animal Control that involved guns and dogs. Apparently, this worked in my favor last night. First, they were extremely responsive. Second, when I told the guy that the town police told me they didn't do possums, he told me they don't either, that they leave that to Wildlife, but that they (Animal Control) try to help out. Meanwhile, the guy brought his 8-10 year-old son with him who at first was Mr. Swagger & Cool but when the possum backed down into the corner and disappeared (as I was afraid he might), he got a little jumpy and nervous and told his dad he should have brought his B.B. gun like he told him. Mr. Possum was found behind a spare board of drywall and caught but not before Nervous Boy said, "He's not going to jump out at me is he?" Meanwhile the dad was talking to the hissing possum saying, "I didn't think you was mean. Why you being so mean?" He nabs him, carries him out and is telling me how mean possums are, that he's shot them in the past and they still keep coming at him. Mr. Possum gets released in the backyard and scampers down through the tall grass. Boy, visibly relieved, says he should have put it on the neighbors' porch (they go to church with them). Then he has a better idea and says, "Ooh, we should've put him in Christy's new truck!" And then he picks up where he left off about shooting possums and dad, forgetting his own comment about shooting possums, nervously tells him, "Now son, we don't shoot things anymore." Yeah, whatever. If he had shot the possum for me, I could have fed my family for the next two nights. I am sure I've seen a recipe somewhere in my collection for possum, maybe for the crockpot? Mmmmmmm