Playing Possum

My parents moved us to the country at the end of first grade.  They had visions of having a ranch, owning Land with capital L.  They wanted to plant gardens, raise cattle, can jellies and jams, and smell the clean air.   They wanted their children to commune with nature, to ride horses, muck out stalls, gather eggs, and eat fresh from the garden. We ended up with one half "Blazing Saddles," one half "Green Acres,"  no parts "Bonanza."

One icy winter day when I was I was in second or third grade, my dad found a momma possum and her litter in the barn while he was moving hay bales.  She was not happy and tried to attack him.  He defended.  She attacked.  Dad deflected and grabbed her by the tail.  Once he had the possum by the tail, the only thing he could think to do was to show her to his family.  Brave hunter and all that.

I don't know what possessed him to decide that it would be good for all of us kids to see one up close and personally, but here he came into the house with it.

INTO. OUR. HOUSE.

Picture if you will the sound of three little girls under the age of eight and one momma screaming when the triumphant hunter brings a hissing possum into the house.   The sound was deafening.    Dad was holding her  by the tail, and that possum was furious about it.   She kept hissing and showing her teeth.  She'd curl up and try to attack him and he would push her back down.  The girls would scream. She'd hiss again and show those sharp needles she called teeth, and then she would curl back up and try to bite him. Dad would slap her down again. We would all scream.  She'd wiggle and try to get away and when that didn't work, she would go back to hissing again.

I was petrified.  It looked like the meanest, biggest rat with the sharpest teeth I had ever seen.  I resolved then and there that a possum would never be my favorite animal.    After several minutes, dad decided the show was over and took her back outside to her babies.   Thankful doesn't begin to describe how we felt.

I somehow made it through about another 15 years without seeing another one.  Not long enough.

All my life, I've heard the phrase "playing possum."   I know what that means. To fake death or sleep. Apparently, though, I'm a little slow.  I just can't seem to remember it when I see when a possum "dead."

The first time it happened I almost lost a finger.

I was on my way to college one early morning.   My family had given up on the country life by then and had moved to a huge, old house on a corner in the middle of the city.

As I walked out to the car I noticed a huge lump in the middle in the road.   I idly wondered if the neighbor's cat had gotten killed.   I decided to drive over, investigate, and then let dad know so he could clean up the mess.

I pulled up beside the grey mass, put the car in neutral, and opened my door.   There lay a poor dead possum.   My mind went back to the day my dad brought one in the house.   I was so glad this one was dead.  I'd have to tell dad, so he could take care of it before someone hit it again.  I glanced down to put my car into first gear and reached out to close the car door without looking.

Then I heard the hiss.

My eyes darted back and there the possum was, not dead at all, but grinning at me with his needle-teeth, an evil glint in its beady little eyes.  It wanted to eat me.

I slammed the car door, put it in drive, and burnt rubber in my haste to get out of there.

Possum 1.  Kristi 0.

Flash forward another ten or twelve years.  I married.  Had a child.  Owned my own home in the city.   I even had my own dog  stray who would later turn into my own personal Cujo.

One night that dog, Bear, went nuts.   I went out to the backyard to investigate.   Bear was near the faucet at the back of the house.  His hackles were up, and he was foaming at the mouth in his distress.   When I got nearer to the dog, I noticed a poor dead possum lying up against the house, right underneath the water faucet.  Apparently, our big, bad dog had killed him in mid-drink.

I drug the dog into the house to get him away from the dead creature and told my husband he needed to dispose of the body.

See a pattern yet?

My hubby was just a *little* reticent to go out and deal with it right away.  His show was on.   After much nagging sweet talk, he finally disengaged himself from the couch and moved toward the back door.


All along the way, I told my husband where exactly it was and how good Bear had been to find it and kill it.

Imagine how surprised I was when we got to the faucet and there stood not a dead possum, oh no, but  one pissed off possum, hissing and showing his teeth.  A possum so enraged he decided to charge us.

Because I am excellent in emergencies, I screamed and ran into the house.

Protect was in his marriage vows.  Not mine.

My husband, an avid Crocodile Hunter fan, began to dance around with his arm thrown wide in his best Steve Irwin impersonation.    The possum was not impressed.   I think if he would have shouted, "She's a beaut" that would have sealed the deal.

He did do some fine spins and twirls though.

Hubby finally threw a five gallon bucked over the top of the possum and captured him.   He put a few heavy bricks on top to secure it.

Excellent.   Good job.  I clapped and cheered. He was so proud of himself.   I was too.....and then it hit me.

Now what?  

We couldn't shoot it.  We lived in town.   What do you do with a wild animal when you live in town?
I called animal control, but they don't answer in our town after 5.  Great.  It was 11 p.m.

So I did what people on episodes of Cops having been doing for years.  I called 911.

911:     What's your emergency?
Me:      Ummm.. yeah.. there's a possum in my backyard.  Come get it.
911:     What?
Me:      There's a possum in my backyard.    And he's mad.  Really mad. Crazy mad.  ( I was trying to make it sound severe so they'd come quickly.)  Come get him, quickly.  Please. (Just in case, they were sticklers for manners.) We even have him in a bucket for you.
911:      Ma'am, this is 911.
Me:       I know!  That's why I called!
911:      This is for emergencies.
Me:       I know! And I have a possum in my backyard. IN. A. BUCKET.

We went on like this for a little while, and she finally patched me through to the non-emergency number at the police department.    Non-emergency.  Whatever.   I had a stinkin' possum in a five gallon bucket, and Cujo in my living room.   If that's not an emergency, I don't know what is.

When I spoke to the police they were totally unsympathetic to my plight.  Their suggestion was to just let it go.  I told them what I thought of their suggestion.   They hung up.

We were obviously on our own.  

I told my hubby what had transpired. We decided we would take the brick off the plastic bucket and run like heck. I came up with a better plan.  It involved me, the inside of the house, and a closed screen door.  (I had to be able to see what happened!!)

Hubby lifted the brick off and the possum was off like a shot.  Hissing and spitting, the possum ran the whole back perimeter  of the house and then up the  back steps.  It ran into the screen, and I had a moment of panic, where I thought that the screen would give and I'd have a possum in my house again, running around free this time.

I screamed and slammed the wooden door on it.  The possum turned around, ran towards my hubby, and then went off into the darkness.

We haven't seen it again. I can't say I miss it.

Possums 2.  Kristi 0.

I'm on my guard, though.  Those possums won't catch me unaware again.

The next time you see one dead on the highway, just know, down deep, they're faking.   They want to draw you in.  They want you to feel sorry for them.

They want to gnaw your face off.  

They're not dead.  They're just playing possum.  And they're coming for you.