Mission Accomplished

Done. Over. Mr. Possum is no longer part of the menagerie in this suburban dwelling. I went MacGyver on his arse. Armed with a common household mop, a broomstick, and twelve feet of telephone wire, I snared the little beast. The first thing a possum does when cornered is growl. The second thing he does is go skunk-like and spray. But since he is not a skunk and lacks the scent glands, he more than makes up for this in scatological offerings. He shit the wall! Oh man does that little bugger stink. I snared his head and was trying to remove him from behind a bakers rack on our deck, but his prehensile tale grabbed everything. True to my word, I walked the bastard down to the library and let him go. It was a this moment that he went limp. I am assuming he is playing dead. Picture above is not of the actual animal, but it would have been a fitting end.

Possum, you have been served.

UPDATE....

Oops. Now I feel bad. He is either dead, or an Oscar worthy 'possum. I am hoping, for karma's sake, he's a really good actor.

wild kingdom

2 a.m. last night, Bella started barking her head off at the back door. I sat straight up in bed, looked at Andrew and said "raccoon!". We had a raccoon friend visit several times two winters ago. He would frequent our screen porch through the dog door, looking to snack on the cat food we keep out there for our two outdoor cats. I even got several photos of him waddling in and out of the patio, searching for kibble. We called animal control one day when he was on the porch and would not leave. They told us it was really our problem and to just give him time and he'd leave. And they get paid to do what exactly?

Anyway.

2:01 a.m. last night. Andrew flies down the stairs in his underwear, and finds a weapon. A golf club. And if any of you have witnessed my husbands golf game, you'll agree a club in his hand could be fatal. He goes onto the screen porch and finds not a raccoon, but a possum. A snarling nasty old possum, looking for an all you can eat buffet of Purina Cat Chow. He pokes at it with the club. It growls and backs up into a corner. The dog is inside going wild. He finally got it to leave. I don't know what probably scared it more - the psychotic frothing dog, or Andrew's 6 foot frame wearing his skivvies flailing a golf club in the air.