Possum Love

It was probably not originally part of God's Divine Plan that possums should live in southern Oregon. That is, of course, unless the homesick Southerner who imported a pregnant female to the Portland area in the 1930s was one of God's divine agents of marsupial distribution. For the previous millennia our part of the world had been protected from the pouched race by the dry expanses of the Great Plains and the snowy heights of the Rocky Mountains; it took the Model T and a worldwide Depression to overcome those obstacles: The possum could never have done it on its own.

Fifty years later the possum had waddled its uncertain way the remaining 250 miles to southern Oregon and my garage. This delay of half a century we can blame on God with more certainty, since He has been given credit for the design of the possum, whose vast and efficient reproductive machinery leaves scant room in its furry body for anything recognizably resembling a brain. Hence the possum does not travel well, giving rise to yet another variation on the venerable joke:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To show the possum it could be done.

The shoulders of our local roadways are now littered with the putrefying remains of the less fortunate of these little travelers. And if our experience is any indication, wherever you are yours soon will be too.

Oddly enough, I happened to be crossing a road myself when I discovered my own overwhelming attraction for possums. I was returning home late one night, and as I crossed the street to our house one of our multitude of cats emerged to greet me. Perhaps it was the darkness or the lateness of the hour, but I didn't notice at first that my cat's tail had been stripped of fur, it was running on its knees, and its muzzle had somehow been stretched to three or four times its normal length. I did find it odd, though, that it ignored me as it passed under my outstretched hand, intent on its beeline to our house.

Shortly thereafter I noticed that objects on shelves in the garage started manifesting an overpowering affinity for the floor. The spirit or poltergeist responsible declined to manifest itself, but it wasn't long before every object on every horizontal surface was, in my absence, busily following one or another of Newton's laws.

And then I met Baby. I might have made a dozen or more evening visits to the garage, for tools or hardware, before I finally noticed the small furry loaf-shaped bundle curled up on my workbench. The loaf certainly didn't notice me. Why a young possum should be cuter than its identical but larger parents I don't know, but this was one cute little guy. White muzzle, expressionless eyes like black glass beads, gray fur, long, naked, ratlike tail. Sort of like the love child of a hedgehog and sewer rat. And being of little brain, young possums are approachable; earnestly ignoring your cooing and treats as they wander about, diligently pushing whatever they can off the shelves.

Baby didn't remain small and cute, though. He grew and matured; soon I could tell when he was in residence solely by the magenta haze of his powerful musk permeating the garage. He would now greet me with a wide grin, showing me all his pointy little teeth. My wife was concerned for my safety, but she didn't know Baby the way I did.

One day a neighbor rushed frantically to the door to inform me that she'd seen an ugly-looking wild animal go under our house, its fur mangy, its course erratic. I leaped to the defense of our Baby. "That's only Baby! He's just shedding! How would you like someone to describe you as ugly and mangy just because you were having a bad hair day?" She backed off slowly, making no sudden moves. Smart girl.

As is usual around our place, I wasn't the first to notice the smell. It seems that it doesn't matter what they're fed or where they live--in the wild or zoo or garage--a possum's little timer clicks off at three years. That is their allotted span. (God again, I guess.) The smell didn't bother me, but somehow I was the one who found himself descending under the house, rooting around in the dust on his knees and elbows. This was going to give an entirely new meaning to the phrase "Bringing Up Baby."

Somehow slithering in the stench and the dirt and the dark turned out to be slightly less pleasant than I'd anticipated. After all, I knew him, Horatio, and now he was dripping wriggling maggots as I struggled to stuff him into a garbage bag. Baby and I slithered backwards toward the crawlspace access, trying to compose myself, Baby merely decomposing. I emerged with the prize and carried my booty into the living room, where the womenfolk were taking their ease. "Say goodbye to Baby," I choked out between the tears, proffering the reeking bag. "Want to give him one last pet?"

It wasn't long before Baby's spot on the workbench was filled again, by a relative, no doubt, and things returned to normal--except for the hole in my heart. As usual I'd announce myself to the newcomer when I entered the garage, "Heeeyyy, Baby!"--but it just wasn't the same.

A few weeks ago I spotted the furry loaf on the workbench as I entered the garage, greeted Baby II, and nearly stepped on two more possums on the floor at the foot of the stairs. In the, um, throes of passion. No, that makes it seem prettier than it was. Okay. Through the dense musky murk you could see them lying on their sides, grunting and twitching, even more oblivious than usual, the male's teeth sunk into the back of his sweetheart's neck, blood oozing into her matted fur. Did I mention the grunting and the twitching?

I tried delicately clearing my throat. I tried suggesting, "Uh, guys, isn't there a better place for this sort of thing?" I tried nudging them with my foot. I tried nudging them harder. But they were there for the duration. There was only one thing I could do. "Hey, Mae, come take a look at this!" I called to my seventeen-year-old daughter. I really don't think she could have gotten a good look; I've never seen a faster about face. (I've noticed that ever since then she's been able to crack her neck pretty loudly.)

So I sealed up the possum hole in the garage. I don't mind operating a marsupial flophouse, but I'm not about to operate a possum brothel.