ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2008-05-02 01:43 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2008-05-02 01:43 pm
Entry tags:
Friday – Home Invasion
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about home invader Jeff and I threw in the back of his pickup truck and dropped off in the woods yesterday evening. It's alarming to discover that someone has taken up residence in your garage without asking. Especially when they are the sort to go through your garbage and leave the place spelling like urine.
The saga began last week when Jeff announced: "We have a possum* living in our garage."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Because I saw it. It's a baby one."
"Awwww. What do you want to do about it?"
"There's a guy at work who has a trap he said I can borrow."
"Cool. Why does he have a trap?"
"Let's put it this way, we call him Roadkill Robert. He lives in the woods and eats whatever he finds out there."
I just looked at my husband.
"I'm not kidding."
"You aren't going to give him our possum, are you?"
"No, I'm going to let it go somewhere that's not here."
"Well, until then, he's part of the household," I said, "Let's name him Eddie."
Yesterday morning, I went in the garage and found this note on top of the cage:
It seems Eddie is a girl.
A very small girl; she was too light to trip the trap, and the first few nights happily ate all the hotdogs (being so young, healthy food didn't interest her much) we put in it without triggering the door to close. Jeff had to rig it with a string and lay in wait until he saw her go inside, and then pulling the string to manually shut the door and capture her. She couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces.
She tried looking sad.
She tried hissing like a cat and growling, too.
As much as she didn't like being imprisoned, she didn't seem to mind the food.
"Tell me you gave her the Oscar Meyer and not the Hebrew Nation hotdogs," I said, "Those things are expensive."
"The Kosher ones were all I could find."
"Now she's never going to want to leave," I told him.
When we took her to the woods, the place where a possum should feel most at home, we almost couldn't get her to leave the cage. I think, in the back of her little marsupial mind, she knew that there would be no more high-end frankfurters just laying around. She would be back to eating the grubs and June bugs that her mother had raised her on. Poor thing.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
*technically what we have is a Virginia Opossum, but no one ever pronounces that O.
The saga began last week when Jeff announced: "We have a possum* living in our garage."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Because I saw it. It's a baby one."
"Awwww. What do you want to do about it?"
"There's a guy at work who has a trap he said I can borrow."
"Cool. Why does he have a trap?"
"Let's put it this way, we call him Roadkill Robert. He lives in the woods and eats whatever he finds out there."
I just looked at my husband.
"I'm not kidding."
"You aren't going to give him our possum, are you?"
"No, I'm going to let it go somewhere that's not here."
"Well, until then, he's part of the household," I said, "Let's name him Eddie."
Yesterday morning, I went in the garage and found this note on top of the cage:
It seems Eddie is a girl.
A very small girl; she was too light to trip the trap, and the first few nights happily ate all the hotdogs (being so young, healthy food didn't interest her much) we put in it without triggering the door to close. Jeff had to rig it with a string and lay in wait until he saw her go inside, and then pulling the string to manually shut the door and capture her. She couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces.
She tried looking sad.
She tried hissing like a cat and growling, too.
As much as she didn't like being imprisoned, she didn't seem to mind the food.
"Tell me you gave her the Oscar Meyer and not the Hebrew Nation hotdogs," I said, "Those things are expensive."
"The Kosher ones were all I could find."
"Now she's never going to want to leave," I told him.
When we took her to the woods, the place where a possum should feel most at home, we almost couldn't get her to leave the cage. I think, in the back of her little marsupial mind, she knew that there would be no more high-end frankfurters just laying around. She would be back to eating the grubs and June bugs that her mother had raised her on. Poor thing.
*technically what we have is a Virginia Opossum, but no one ever pronounces that O.
no subject
And, whatever happened to 'possums playing 'possum' when threatened or frightened. That sure doesn't happen, in my realm of experience.
I have an LJ post somewhere about my encounter...
no subject
This one was still the size of a small kitten, though. She was a lot more charming than a grown possum.
no subject