The possum that came a’calling

No sooner had the ink dried on the column about my friend, Stevie, who rescues possums than I found myself joining her posse of possum preservers.

But how can you turn your back on a well-mannered possum that is the first to welcome you into your new home? A possum that is hospitable enough to emerge from the woods and tap on your front door in the early morning sunlight? Especially when everyone knows that possums are nocturnal. A possum that will pace back and forth on your front porch until you’ve said, “Howdy do?”

How can you pay no attention to a thoughtful possum that seems enormously concerned and remorseful that she has thoroughly drenched your pretty new porch with her blood?

Now, how do you walk away from a nice possum like that?

At 7 a.m. on the first morning we greeted the sunrise from our new house, Dixie Dew and I emerged from our bedroom to find one of our houseguests peering discretely around a front window’s edge.

“Come here,” Pearce whispered, motioning frantically. I expected to see deer grazing in the yard but, instead, found an addled possum scampering around the porch.

“I think it has rabies,” he announced. “It’s acting weird.” This from a man who had probably never seen a live possum up close but still, the statement caught my attention.

“Rabies!” I screeched as I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher, in turn, paged a sleeping Animal Control officer who called me back in a few minutes.

“I think I have a possum on my front porch that has rabies,” I announced dramatically.

“A possum?” asked the officer, stifling a yawn.

“Yes, sir.”

“M’am, possums don’t carry rabies.”

“They don’t?” Now, who would have thought that? But that’s all the more reason that we should rescue possums – they’re not dangerous, just visually challenged.

The officer advised me to pick the possum up by the tail – its body weight is so heavy that they can’t move to bite you – or in a shovel then return it to the woods.

I hung up the phone. “Okay, we have to pick it up and take it back to the woods.”

Pearce, tough man that he is, froze, eyes wide. “Pick it up?”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, brushing him aside. “I’ll do it.” I didn’t even stop to have my morning coffee.

Trailing at least 30 feet behind me, Pearce followed me to the garage where I grabbed a shovel and headed to the porch. I stopped when I got to the top of the steps.

“Oh my gosh! Look at all this blood!” Apparently, some less hospitable creature had bitten off part of the possum’s tail. The sad-eyed baby had dragged blood all over the porch formerly known as pretty.

I knelt down. “Oh, you poor sweet baby,” I cooed. “You’re so precious. You need to go home.” The animal control officer had warned me that the possum would probably play dead but she didn’t. She allowed herself to be coaxed right onto my shovel as Pearce folded his arms, threw his head back and laughed.

“I’d give anything if I had a picture of this,” he called as I carried the sweet little possum back to her woods.

I called Stevie and reported the story, adding an apology for teasing her about rescuing possums.

“Oh, aren’t they sweet?” she asked softly.

“Yes! Yes, they are. I wish I could have kept her for a pet.”

So, now I’m thinking that perhaps Stevie and I should start a non-profit for the preservation of possums.

Someone needs to do it. After all, they’re such sweet, misunderstood animals.

Very hospitable, too, if you meet the right possum.