Penny the Possum

What would you do if you found out a possum was living in your garage?

I was faced with this question in December 2020.

Penny sightings began in September, when she was just a baby. Late night backyard bonfires were disrupted by the low trot of a baby Penny scurrying past our feet.

I'd forgotten about her when December rolled around, and along with it, the frigid temperatures Chicagoland is known for.

The day I discovered Penny in the garage, I was there searching for an old movie projector. Shifting lawn chairs, tables, and a manual mower, my eyes drifted to a large white industrial paint bucket in the corner. When I focused my vision, I saw two black eyes peering up at me from a bushel of white fur.

With an overdramatic shriek, I ran out the garage, thoroughly freaked out.

After shaking off my heebie-jeebies, I realized that, beyond looking at me, Penny hadn't made the slightest movement in all my commotion. I gathered the courage to I venture back into the garage for have a closer look.

Nestled on top of newspapers, the little possum looked up at me, blinking like I'd just disturbed the world's best nap.

As I looked at this cozy creature, I knew I had a few options:

Scenario A

Call the humane society, and ask them to come and remove her. That probably would have been the most "responsible" thing to do, but I couldn't bear the thought of this little critter being plucked from her home turf. Sure, she found her way into a human's garage for warmth and shelter, but did that really mean that she deserved to be whisked away to who-knows-where?

I thought not.

Scenario B

Attempt to release her into the wild of our backyard by myself. After brief contemplation, I vetoed that idea because I didn't want to risk being attacked by Penny in self-defense.

Scenario C

Take video footage of Penny, and post it in an Instagram story inviting recommendations on how to handle the situation. I know this sounds like typical millennial behavior but my logic was that I might be connected to someone who knew the best way to navigate rescue/release missions. Ultimately, I decided against it though. I know how easy it is for people to weigh in on situations they've never been in before, and didn't want to invite the opinions of internet friends in making this decision.

After considering the possible outcomes of my first two options, there was a fourth one that felt most aligned to my character.

Playing Possum

Interestingly enough, this wasn't my first time coming face-to-face with a possum.

When I was nine years old, my sisters and I came home from school to find a possum that had been struck by a vehicle, right in front of our house. It was lying on its back, belly-up in the middle of the street.

As we approached the scene, I noticed something strange. Even though the possum was clearly dead, the stomach was moving. Once I was close enough to take it all in, I saw the reason for the movement:

It was a mama possum that had unborn babies wriggling in her pouch.

I immediately went into rescue mode.

I ran inside the house to find a pair of rubber gloves. When I couldn’t locate any, I grabbed the next best thing: two ziploc sandwich bags. I asked my older sister to stay inside and call the humane society, while I prepared to do the unthinkable:

Deliver four baby possums from their deceased mother.

As morbid as the scene sounds, it was one of the most beautiful memories of my childhood because of this:

I allowed compassion to override fear, and I did what felt right in my heart.

Remembering this moment, while standing outside of my garage as a present day 32 year old mother, the answer was clear. I’d let Penny stay in the garage as long as she needed, and take care of her however long she did.

I researched what possums ate, and raided the fridge for an assortment of fruits and veggies to deliver to Penny.

Bearing a bowl of apples, celery, and carrots, I stepped outside into the rainy, crisp afternoon. When I opened the garage door, Penny was in the same place I last saw her. Just like the first time, she craned her face upwards, blinking her sleepy eyes at me.

I stretched my arms toward her from a safe distance, so she could see the food offering I had in tow. Her nose perked up, and her mouth opened revealing spiky little teeth -- a clear indication that she was hungry.

I placed the bowl on the ground, and left the garage. When I came back the next day, the food was gone.

This exchange continued over the course of a week. I’d make secret trips to the garage to replenish Penny’s bowl, occasionally startled to notice that she had left her bucket and was exploring other areas of the garage.

Just as we were establishing a friendly rhythm, an unseasonably warm day greeted us. By then, my sisters had learned about my possum friend, and agreed that it would be the perfect day for her to reenter the wild.

We propped the garage door open until sundown in an attempt to coax her out of the cozy comfort of her bucket. It worked because I haven’t seen her since.

Caring for Penny in a year seemingly marked by fear, scarcity, and sorrow was the reminder I needed at the end of 2020. That, no matter what headlines say, it's the kindnesses made offline, in the real world, that reveal the heart of humanity.