According
to my extensive research (approximately five minutes on Google when
I should have been folding underwear), the Chinese zodiac system assigns
an animal symbol to each year. It is believed that people born in
a given year have the personality of that year's animal. For example,
based on the placemats at my favorite Chinese buffet, I was born in
the Year of the Dog, which means I am loyal, honest and difficult
to housebreak.
Although it has absolutely nothing to do with the Chinese zodiac system,
I am hereby declaring this year to be the Year of the Possum! The
common possum (also known as the "opossum," "roadkill" or "hissing
rat-kitty") is actually a marsupial, meaning that when possums feel
threatened, they hiss with a strong Australian accent. They vaguely
resemble a small house cat who spent a drunken night on the town with
a set of malfunctioning Norelco clippers.
"So why this sudden interest in possums?" you probably aren't asking.
Within the past two months, I've had two encounters with these repulsive,
yet somehow endearing creatures.
The first occurred one evening last month while my wife and I were
taking our evening geriatric power stroll. As we walked past our house,
we noticed an unidentified hairy object on our front lawn. At first,
we thought it might be a bunny, a kitten or even one of our family
doglets who had escaped to the front yard to kill the rest of our
grass.
Upon closer inspection (I made my wife go look), we discovered that
it was a young possum—probably a teenager based on all of the
sighing and eye rolling. Because East Texas was experiencing record
heat and a drought at the time (and because I feel a kindred connection
to all creatures with bad hair) I decided to prepare the possum a
small dish of water and a handful of kibble dog food.
When I returned with the food and water, the possum gave me a half-hearted
hiss and revealed in its clutches the carcass of a half-eaten rodent.
In other words, I was like one of those restaurant servers who try
to force a dessert on me after I've already stuffed myself. (I usually
agree to the dessert.)
My next possum encounter happened a month later when my wife interrupted
my slumber to inform me that there was a possum in our swimming pool/liquid
cash vortex. When I asked her if she got it out, she said that she
thought I should do it since she basically does everything else except
breathe for me. (I'm still trying to figure out how to turn that over
to her, too.)
When I went outside, the possum was sitting just inside one of the
skimmer intake thingies—judging me because he didn't like my
bathrobe. There was no time to reconsider my leisurewear, though,
as I sprang into action, using the pole end of my dip net to gouge
the possum out of the skimmer and then skillfully twirling the pole
to scoop him in the net and deposit him over the back fence—while
cold possum water streamed down my arm and into my robe.
Although these experiences were not altogether pleasant, it's nice
to know that our neighborhood has a healthy ecosystem that supports
the local wildlife—even if it has no taste in bathrobes. |
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