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So when Paul got home last night, the last we saw of the opossum was his hasty retreat to the woods. We thought that was the last we’d see. Then at 6:30 this morning, Paul went to let Cupcake out and there he was, huddled against the house and covered with snow. Then he comes back upstairs and says to me (half asleep): “You know, if you want to you could go to the barn and get one of the dog kennels.” So there I am wanting to stay in the warm bed but thinking of this little miserable furball on our back doorstep.

So of course I got up and walked to the barn in my pajamas and a coat and wheeled out a kennel and a cheap throw (those ones that come packaged in plastic for picnics or whatever). Then, of course, I’m all set up and standing over a very stubbornly sleeping opossum. After poking at his rump a few times (gloved finger, of course) and yelling ‘hey buddy, wake up! Wake up!’, I got a pair of work gloves from Paul and quickly tossed the wee beastie into the crate, under the throw. He was so sluggish he hardly moved.

Around nine I checked in, half expecting him to be sitting in there headfirst just like I left him, but he’d bundled into the throw and was peeking out when I lifted the front of it, like ‘hey, man, the light! Damn!’ and he’s been sleeping in there all day, not even coming out for banana peels or an egg I opened for him.

I just know this will cause problems later…will probably steal eggs from the henhouse or something. Or he will be a she and there will be a buttload of babies on its back next time I see it, all eating eggs and chasing chickens. It’s hard to leave a cute furry animal on your back step in the snow, especially when they’re all slow and helpless and not running away and holding banana peels in their little handlike paws.

Paul says his name is Osama bin Possum. Or maybe Opossum bin Laden.

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