Possum Golf: A Primer on Effective Play

Possum golf is not my favorite activity, but sometimes a necessary event. The rules are simple, get that varmint off your back deck. What to wear is optional, but since it is usually an unplanned outing, no need for prêt a porter, in my case bare feet and PJs were adequate enough. Time is never to your advantage since those needle toothed bastards happen to be nocturnal, so 2:30 am is as good a time as any to start a new sport. Club selection is not a matter of choice but more of convenience. I grabbed my back-up sand wedge that happened to be in the coat closet for such critter emergencies. A flashlight is standard issue as these beady eyed rodents can easily be fooled by bright light. Deer laugh at these filthy marsupials for how easily they are arrested by a shining beam. In this man versus nature scenario I have two advantages. The first is keen intellect, opposable thumbs, and the knowledge of cutlery. The second most important thing going for me is the confidence that this particular possum has never seen my golf swing. I am assured that it has no idea that the safest place for all of God’s creatures is directly in front of me when I am clutching my Billy Barule.

Now your goal is not to kill this lost wayward ruffian. He just wants some kibble. If his night will be complete with a bowl full of Happy Cat, then who am I to make his night worse with a wood shampoo. Your object in possum golf to assist your intruder to make a timely exit. Keep the light in his eye and “guide” him with your club of choice. As mentioned I used my sand-wedge with an open face grip to maximize surface area, and minimize the need to strike. A driver would be better, length wise, but remember, opportunity trumps comfort. Plus I can blog the words “open face possum sand wedge” hoping those in the rural south will stumble across this post looking for a recipe for leftover road kill.

Of course possum and their ilk are stubborn. He did not want to leave. At first stoke, he quickly scurried to the corner. I tried to coral him with the blade until he wedged himself (I guess it was a him) between the balusters of the deck with a screen blocking his escape. He remained motionless, I guess this was the fabled playing possum defense mechanism, woefully inadequate but then again his normal enemies are barely sentient. I finally pried him from this posture only to be face to face with a snarling, guttural sounding rat with a bad haircut. A few more taps of cold steel to the noggin got him going toward the doggie door that got him into this predicament. But in is blindness he would not go through. With one hand on club, the other with flashlight, I used my leg to sidekick open the screen door. Failing to realize an escape, a few more strokes emancipated our rabid intruder into the cold darkness that is the DC suburbs. He scurried under the deck never to return, at least as of a week.

Not setting a par for this hole, I notched about a dozen strokes, nothing too hurtful, but from its menacing patter, effectively annoying to the four legged kibble thief.

As in most golf events I had a gallery of onlookers, a very interested dog and two equally disinterested cats, both of whom dwarf the scavenger, but are too fat and lazy to defend their rations. However if I had to eat generic cat food, only to barf it up later, I wouldn’t care either. No animals were harmed in this event, maybe ticked off, but not hurt.