Posted June 16, 2003
In the year the possum came to visit, we had 3 cats, Stealth, Cunning, and Trouble. In warm weather, we latched the screen door on the front porch, leaving the front door open, and the cats came and went through a cat door.
One night in the late summer, Jim sat in his chair, reading, his bare feet propped up on his favorite stool. When something sniffed at his feet, he assumed it was Cunning (the most misnamed cat I've ever met). He twitched his feet and told her "Cut it out!" without looking up .
A few minutes later, the examination recommenced. Annoyed, he looked over his book and found himself starting into the beady eyes of a young possum, who froze in horror.
Equally startled, Jim threw his book at the sharp-toothed marsupial evaluating his toes.
The possum skeddadled for cover. My writing desk was situated at the window, the side with the drawers to the corner and its turned legs facing along the wall, and a few inches away from it stood my grandmother's upright grand piano. This configuration of furniture passed for cover in our living room. The possum ran between the desk and the piano, jamming his head into the narrow space between the piano and the wall. From his shoulders on back, although he was technically under the desk, he was clearly visible, but he was content with his hiding place and didn't withdraw to search for another.
Jim waited briefly for the possum to calm down and leave. It seemed satisfied with its security. Muttering under his breath, Jim stalked out to the front porch to get the broom and nudge the poor creature out of the living room. After all, a possum's place is in the garage.
An errant motion caught his eye as he laid hands on the broom. There was a baby possum clinging to it. Jim shook it off with an oath. Several more of its siblings scurried for cover behind the assortment of pots and potting soil that somehow hadn't put themselves away yet after the Spring repotting of my house plants. Apparently this was the night Mom had told the kids it was time they found places of their own.
The possum couldn't see Jim, and I'm sure he wondered, for whatever the attention span of a possum is, how Jim found him behind that piano. Jim tapped him with the broom and, after guiding him out onto the porch to be reunited with his family, he slammed the front door shut.
But that wasn't the last we saw of the possum.
Actually, come to think of it, it was probably one of the siblings that had not had a book thrown at it, that started coming to visit. But we always thought of it as the same possum, and maybe it was the bold one, undetoured by the incident with the book, as all had turned out well in the end.
At first we wondered what was going on when we noticed the cats bristle upon coming into the house. Then they put their noses to the floor and seemed to be tracking something. When we noticed the trail invariably led to their food bowl, we figured we'd had a visitor when we were out.
"Just let him come when the cats are home!" we chortled. "They'll teach him a lesson."
The day arrived. Jim slipped into the kitchen to get the broom (that had somehow found its way back where it belonged) to separate the cats from their just prey, if it seemed necessary to protect the poor thing.
The cats snarled at the possum. The possum hunkered down, glared at the three of them malevolently, and waddled slowly forward.
I rubbed my eyes. The cats, growling deep in their throats, gave way to the intruder. They followed him at a respectful distance, scowling at him as he feasted on the contents of their food dish, and then trailed him out the door as he left.
One evening we returned home to find the cats waiting for us anxiously at the front door. They could get out of the house through a loose screen, they couldn't get get back in by that route. We wondered why they seemed so agitated until we opened the door.
The possum was perched on the arm of the couch. He shifted his weight, as if preparing to defend his territory. When you see a possum out of doors at night, they look ghostly and mysterious. This was my first good look at one indoors in good light. The shades of grey in his rough fur made him look dirty, and his long grey tail was only slightly more attractive than a rat's. Maybe less so. It looked less naked, being grey, not pink, but it bore scattered long hairs, making him look unkempt.
Kempt or unkempt, the possum hissed at us when we came into view, but soon after the TV came on and spoiled his quiet interlude, he clambered down the couch and out the door.
Another time I went into the study, which was almost at the back of the house, to finish sorting some laundry I'd left on the couch in there. The possum was perched on the arm of that couch. He glared at me and hissed, and I left him in possession of the laundry.
I hadn't been in the mood to do chores, anyway.
Summer had turned to fall by then. Soon fall gave way to winter. I spent a few anxious nights after it grew cold enough we no longer left the doors open, afraid the cantankerous beast might have been trapped somewhere in the house, better hidden than on that first night. But he had moved on, and we never had another possum adopt us, which is just as well.
Still, I'm rather pleased that I once had a possum as a house guest. Not everyone can say that!
By Ruby Jung. Background by www.starshinesoftware.com. All rights reserved.