Living in the Country is Interesting

I've lived in the country--or at least country-adjacent, for most of my life. Over the years, I've contested with the usual things getting into my house: mice, crickets, the occasional sparrow. One of my most interesting moments was telling the person with whom I was conversing on the phone that I had to get the goat out of my kitchen. (Mimi had nudged the door open and was pushing things around on the counter looking for bread.) One of the most bizarre moments came while I was cleaning the crates in the living room, hearing my little five-pound TFT "Drew" letting out a bark that I had never heard before, and turning around to see him standing down a several foot long rat snake.

In my living room.

Yeah. That was a tad unnerving. Everything worked out fine, though. Drew got tossed (yes, tossed) into an open crate. My heart started beating again. The snake found a new home in the state park. Granted, I didn't sleep for a few nights, but we all survived.

None of those things prepared me for the opossum.

A few nights ago, the dogs started cutting up at around two o'clock a.m. Terriers are good at that. Some people have learned to tune out the sound. I, however, somehow manage to wake up if the dogs just scratch at something. How else would Yaddle get me to hold up the cover at night for her to jump under, I guess? I looked around. Nothing. I put it down to them hearing the cats out on the front porch and tried to go back to sleep.

Oh, you sweet summer child.

No sooner had I snugged myself down again the dogs started cutting up. This time, Yaddle decided that she was getting in on the action. I tried to ignore it, but she kept going back and forth, back and forth, jumping onto my stomach, shoving her Yaddlesnoot into my face, jumping off my stomach, trotting out to the kitchen, returning, jumping onto my stomach . . . you get the picture. I followed her out to the kitchen.

There was nothing that I could see except my broken dreams.

"There's nothing out here, you maniacs," I informed them politely. "Stop it!"

I returned to bed, only to have Yaddle return to alerting me of A Presence in the Kitchen. This time, I saw something. The tip of a narrow, hairless tail disappearing under the sink cabinet. Yaddle forced her way under before I could get there, determined that she would Get It This Time. Yeah, but no. My brain instantly went to the R word. Living in the country, having dog food and goat food in close proximity, an occasional member of the Muridae family has gotten into the cottage, usually ushered out courtesy of a dog or of a large black Tom Cat trap. I made a note that I had to set a trap in the morning and tried to return back to bed.

Surely, you jest.

Yaddle "Ron Popeil" Skedaddle returned with me. "But wait! There's more!" she insisted. "Follow me!" In the interest of my poor stomach, I followed her to the kitchen Yet. Another. Time. This time, in the dim half-light of the kitchen, I could see a little white face peering out at me. I grabbed Yaddle as she made another nosedive under the sink. There was no mistaking that pointy little nose and I did not want those pointy little teeth being sunk into the Yaddlesnoot. I have to admit it: for the first time in years, I was rattled by something in my kitchen. It was an opossum.

In my house.

Under my sink.

Yaddle was fairly dancing with glee by this time, because I had Seen the Monster and was clearly going to take care of it now. Um. No. I opened the door to the outside and tried to usher it out that way. It scuttled behind one of the kitchen cabinets. Outsmarted by a juvenile marsupial with an attitude.

Score one for the opossum.

Yaddle looked disappointed but accepted that I seemed to enjoy the hunt more than I enjoyed the kill. She snuffed one time at the cabinet and we returned to bed, snuggling in for the duration. I was gratified, what with it still being in the wee hours of the morning and all.

The next morning, it seemed that the drama was over. There was no sound coming from the cabinet. None of the dogs seemed particularly interested in anything going on in the kitchen, outside of food preparation. That night passed without a pointy-snouted intruder. I figured that Yaddle and I and all of the barking dogs and loud voices had done the trick. The opossum was gone.

Uh huh.

Apparently, the Allure of the Dog Food was too much for our visitor. Although I try to be careful not to spill food, sometimes the dogs will accidentally push bits of kibble from their crates (all of my dogs are fed in their crates to avoid squabbles). Is that enough to attract a juvenile opossum into the house? Apparently so! This time, I recognized Yaddle's stomach jumping for what it was and dutifully followed her out to the kitchen, broom once again in hand.

By the time I had arrived in the kitchen, barely seconds after Yaddle, she had let out a roar and had dived under the sink cabinet. She emerged, shaking the little opossum so fast that her head seemed a blur. It let out a squeak and went limp in her jaws. I felt a little sad. Yaddle was just doing the job that her ancestors were bred to do. I praised her and gave her a cookie, settling her in an empty crate while I cleaned up her prey.

Now, here's the thing about Yaddle. She's a hunter, but once the rodent/lizard/June bug stops moving, she's done. Unlike Johnny and Badger who will continue to shake, "just to make sure," she's all in for treats and snuggles. And here's the thing about opossums: they "play 'possum'. I was very cautious when I returned to the kitchen to clean up that limp little body. I poked it with the broom handle, gently, "just to make sure."

It twitched.

Well played, little opossum. Well played.

A second poke brought it to its feet. It wavered there, groggily staring at me. I was both relieved and dismayed. I was glad that it lived, as I hate to see any young creature die, but I was still tasked with getting a groggy opossum out of my kitchen. To my great relief, this time the little critter allowed itself to be ushered out of the house, not even hissing at the broom that was gently giving it direction.

Almost a week has gone by and there has been no sign of Yaddle's Opossum. Did it succumb to its injuries? Maybe, but it was walking pretty well last I saw it. Did a cat get it? Doubtful. It was a bit too big for a cat to want to take it on. Did one of the outside dogs help it meet its maker? If so, we've seen no sign of it. Whatever its fate, I'm pretty certain that it's decided that kitchens are No Fun and that garbage cans are a much better bet for scavenging.

So, I'm hoping that you have Safe Travels, Little Opossum. May your next foray into the human world be safer. Oh, and . . .

Yaddle says, "hi."