TheBanyanTree: Dead Possum in the Backyard - Tuesday Trivia

[Monique Colver]

Upon reflecting on today’s events, it occurred to me that I should start
with the beginning. However, the beginning was possibly the most interesting
part of the day, so once I start with that, what will I do?

Today I woke up late. This is common for me, as I’m not a morning person and
no one bothers to wake me up. There’s an alarm clock that’s set for 7, which
I regard as an unnecessary time of day altogether, and when it goes off I
grab for it blindly, turn it off, and then set it down. Since I can do all
of this in my sleep, it has very little effect on the waking process. Once,
when I was a corporate drone and required to be somewhere every day, I was
up early on a daily basis. This, however, is one of the best benefits of
being self-employed: I don’t have to schedule things for earlier than 10 am.
When earlier events are presented to me, which is often, since there is a
large group of people who seem to think that meeting at 7 am to get their
day started off is a good idea, I’m likely to flake out.

Eventually my charming husband will wander in to wake me up, since he can’t
stand being at work while I am not – is it my fault he has set hours he has
to be present? I don’t think so. Until he comes to wake me, the dogs sleep
with me, the youngest seeing charming husband’s absence as an excellent time
to burrow in next to me. So in he comes, announcing that it’s time for all
of us to be up, and the dogs jump up, excited that they can run out and see
another day. They love this part of the day. Technically, from what I can
determine, they love all parts of the day. They’re quite happy and
well-adjusted.

They barrel down the stairs, the younger jumping on the older as she tries
to descend with a modicum of grace. They run to the back door, and charming
husband opens it, as he does every day, and dogs go streaking past him into
the wilderness known as our little backyard.

And then charming husband sees it, right on the corner of our patio. A dead
possum. Just laying there, as dead possums will. It wasn’t even playing
possum. It was missing parts and was definitely dead.

Internal parts, I mean, in case you were wondering. Or so charming husband
says.

The dogs hadn’t even stopped to sniff it, not even to see if it was playing
possum. They are adorable dogs, but I’m not sure they always see what’s
around them. Instead of seeing the fun dead thing set out for them like a
buffet, they ran to the fence to see if the dogs next door were out. The
dogs next door never come over and play, but somehow they think they need to
check frequently.

All day charming husband has been wondering where the dead possum came from.
Long ago groundhogs learned not to burrow into our yard, and possums aren’t
burrowers. While the dogs would be quite interested in a service that would
deliver wildlife to them, they fortunately aren’t smart enough to look for
one, or to arrange a delivery if they did. I am not a big possum fan, so I
didn’t bring it in. Charming husband is of the opinion that an eagle dropped
it into our yard, but charming husband is from Alaska, where eagles are
known to pick up small dogs and wildlife and carry them off. I don’t see
that around here much, but that may be because I haven’t been looking. It’s
possible the dogs played with (a euphemism for “tortured and killed”) it
last night, before they came in for the night, but they weren’t acting as if
they’d just had a gorefest, and they’d been quiet. I know my oldest dog
around possums – she’s not quiet when she goes after them.

So the possum was disposed of, and all is right with the world. Except for
the possum of course, and any survivors who may still be awaiting his/her
return. We have no address to send a telegram too, so I’m not even sure who
we’d notify. Yet all day, whenever charming husband and I were in the same
room, he’d say, “I wonder where that possum came from?” Sometimes he’d go in
to detail about the state of the poor possum, how he/she was missing vital
organs when found, things of that nature. He’s a questioning sort of person,
the kind who likes to ask questions and have answers, whereas I just say,
“Oh well,” and move on, questions unanswered, no one the wiser. (Especially
me – a person who doesn’t ask questions isn’t likely to learn much.)

I thought we’d dispensed with the topic, until he called me down for dinner.
I was still working at 7 pm, since I don’t start early. I came downstairs,
and he’d cooked a fabulous meal of salmon and spinach and rice, and leftover
garlic bread from yesterday’s crab cake feast. He’s doing an excellent job
in the kitchen.

We sat down at the table and began to eat. And he said, “I wonder where that
possum came from. You should have seen it, it was torn apart and its
intestines were strewn about the yard like toilet paper after a big football
game, except it was red, and I think I saw its liver poking out, or maybe
the gallbladder.”

He may not have used those exact words. He may have just said, “I wonder
where that possum came from,” but I heard the rest anyway, having a pretty
good imagination (it makes up for my lack of a social life, believe me), and
I said, “Hey! I’m eating!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, quite apologetically, “but I wonder where it came
from.” He would have gone on, if I hadn’t told him to shut up. I’m mean when
my enjoyment of food is being disturbed by talk of dead possums.

July 7th, the day of the dead possum. The rest of the day’s events pale in
comparison.


http://open.salon.com/blog/moniquec/2009/07/07/dead_possum_in_the_backyard
Monique Colver