M is for Murder

As I water the garden with my brand new multi-option jet sprayer, I realize the dog is jumping at the chicken fence more than usual. "No! Bailey, no!" ... back to watering. But she just won't quit! Again, I scold her from afar like a parent in the grocery store who yells just for show and turns back to scanning the chip aisle as their kid rips open a cereal box. Bailey usually comes when called and definitely stops whatever she's doing when she's told no. Unfortunately, I have recently taken a position at a corporate entity which is effectively extinguishing my acumen. Hindsight being 20/20...this was the moment the female intuition should have kicked in.

As I round corner of the raised-bed tomato jungle, I see the perp. An over-sized rat tail is attached to something that hides behind a wide sunflower leaf. Quickly switching the hose setting to "jet" mode, I give a 5-lb possum a direct and thorough shower. But it's standing with its paws laterally clinging to the fence and its body tilts at a 45 degree angle as it is pummeled with the steady gush of water. When I let up with the spray, it gently sways upright again and freezes for a moment, looking like it is trying to figure out if what just happened will happen again.

I know that one can't take Old Yeller behind the garage in St. Louis City but what about pests or wildlife? Hunting permit needed? I switch on the garage light and go in for a closer look. Dripping wet with a mosquito taking advantage of separated fur exposing fresh skin on its nose...the scene is so pathetic that I immediately feel guilty for trying to work up the courage to shoot it... Damn You.




The damage has been done in the coop (and I still didn't know the extent) but I have to get rid of this thing so tomorrow it won't return for a full-blown homicidal spree. It no longer has murder in its eyes but it definitely looks crazed and lost. I wonder if possums can take abilify. They probably have the dexterity to open a safety-seal. Anyway, this thing has gotta go.

Bailey is instructed to sit at a distance that keeps the thing frozen and I retrieve a box from the garage which is obviously too small for the job but it's all I've got. As I knock it loose from the fence with a pitchfork and attempt to scoop the thing into the cardboard transportation device, it starts to bite the rungs and climb up the handle! A shriek, arm flailing and swift but purposeful move later, the culprit is now in a box closed with the "left, bottom, right, top and tuck" method... and no air holes. This thing has claws and teeth that have evolved for trash-scavanging and chicken-killing so a box is definitely not going to contain it well... ah yes! A log should do the trick. So the person who had a C in high school physics puts a big heavy log on top of a rather flimsy box top but it works for the time being.

I call Jerome outside and he helps me scoop one rigor-mortised hen into a Jay's Internatonal Food produce carton. I was actually thankful for the calcium-ion induced stiffness because it made it pretty easy to roll the thing out. I let Jerome in on the plan: he drives a few miles away as I hold the box (already wearing leather work gloves) and I'll dump it a safe distance away so it can rummage in peace through someone elses yard. The log drops through the box top now shaped like a funnel, not only almost squishing the traumatized mammal but breaking the cardboard so there is no longer a lid to the cube. Quickly coming to terms with the fact that I may very well have to aid in putting this animal out of its misery (and it's my fault), I remove the log to see a shocked but intact little possum.

I wonder if anyone saw me walking 10 blocks in 100 degrees wearing my long-sleeved, long-pants scrubs, lightly shaking a cardboard box (after trial and error, this kept it scared enough to not move and come to bite my hand off but didn't seem to have long-lasting ill effects). To a bystander, I'm sure I'm now the one looking like some abilify wouldn't hurt. After an arm-exhausting walk, I released the literally and figuratively shaken little creature, making sure it was a relatively nice house with an unkept yard so it would feel at home despite the relocation.

And then there were three...