Grilled Possum

Grilled Possom

Saturday night we returned from a graduation party about eleven in the evening. After appropriate greetings were exchanged, we let the dog out. We could hear him from the kitchen as he patrolled the perimeter of the yard, diligently performing his primary mission in life, keeping the yard free of cats and other non-canine, small furry animals.

Our dog has three distinctive outdoor barks. The first is a single yap, not too loud, that signals that he is on the wrong side of the back door. If we do not respond quickly enough it may be repeated. Deliberate and under control.

The second is the "I know there's a cat around here somewhere bark." This is a prolonged and intermittent yapping, of moderate volume, usually directed at some portion of the stockade fence or occasionally a tree. I have seem him find an actual cat on occasion, rather than just the recent scent of one. He enjoys the barking and the chasing but he doesn't seem terribly committed to catching. One morning I saw a rather large cat chase him across the back yard.

The third outdoor bark is the rarest and is reserved for small furry creatures, other than cats. This bark is loud, persistent and frantic. Dog on the verge of psychotic episode. On only one occasion were we able to verify the cause of this bark. The ruckus was taking place just outside the dining room window, a part of the yard that he usually doesn't find too interesting. We shone a flashlight out the window and there in the tree was a possum, safely out of reach and calmly waiting for his chance to escape.

Saturday night, about fifteen minutes after starting his patrol, he launched into bark number three. I usually take the "ignore it and it will go away" approach, unless it lasts too long at which point I will go out and fetch him in before he disturbs the neighbors too much.

About the time the dog noise settled down I realized that there was a bit of excessive commotion upstairs in the kitchen. I went to investigate. My daughter, drawn by the noise, had come into the kitchen, where her mother was sitting at the computer, to look out the window. There on the deck was a small wet blob of fur with the face and teeth of a possum. At first they thought it was just part of a possum because there was so little of it. They brought the dog in the house and by the time I got there the evidence was gone.

The dog frantically wanted out and finally I opened the door. Nose down, he executed a very professional expanding box search pattern until he came to a portion of the deck where a piece of plywood leaned against the railing. He resumed his psychotic episode.

I herded him back into the house and went and found a flashlight. I shone the beam down between the latticework of the railing and the piece of plywood and was greeted by the upturned face of a possum, mouth open and complete with the standard set of fifty teeth.

I went into the house and fetched a box and a broom. I set the box down on its side and lifted the plywood out of the way. I used the broom to usher the possum into the box. I tilted the box upright, lifted it onto a nearby table and covered it with a piece of screen. Later, I was to learn that this was the exact method of containment recommended by wildlife experts.

While there was no blood or obvious signs of damage the animal was wet and lethargic. I thought he might have internal injuries and really didn't think he would last till morning. I went into the house to watch a movie with the family.

When the movie was over I went to check on him. He had managed to climb out of the box and was sitting on a charcoal grill that was on the table next to his box. Still looking bedraggled, his desperate attempt to escape demonstrated to me that he wasn't done yet. I lifted up the grill cover and placed it over him, confining him in the dark until morning.

Late to bed and late to rise is my preferred schedule on the weekend. I woke and remembered I had a trapped possum on the porch. And being first thing in the morning, I was going to have to let the dog out again. I took the dog out, marching him quickly across the deck, out to the yard and closed the gate behind him. I lifted the lid off the grill, almost hoping that he had expired during the night. This would at least make my task of disposing of him simple. No such luck. There he was, lethargic but alert, hissing at me. I replaced the grill cover.

I sat down at the computer with my morning coffee to check the overnights. My wife eventually appeared and asked if she wanted to see our new pet. Thinking he was still in the box she was a bit surprised when I lifted the grill cover. "I'll never eat off that grill again." Followed by, "You have to get rid of it." And how do you propose that I do that on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a three day weekend? "Put it in a garbage bag and put it in the trash." Suffocation is a slow, miserable way to die and he might have enough energy left to shred the bag. Look at those claws. "Put him in a bag and hit him with a shovel, if you're that worried about it." responded my wife.

So I went to the web and then the phone. Five or six phone calls later, I was talking to Sue, a state permitted, small mammal rehabilitator. Sue is affiliated with "Friends of Texas Wildlife". I told her my story and she agreed to take my possum.

I was not about to drive thirty miles with the possum trapped in my grill, so I moved him to an old aquarium left over from our gerbil days. Once in the aquarium, he showed increasing signs of life but was still looking a bit slimed. My daughter and I loaded him into the van and were off.

When we arrived at Sue's house, she invited us in and we set the aquarium down on her floor. She removed the lid and with no hesitation at the toothy hissing ball of fur, grabbed him by the tail and lifted him out. Other than showing his teeth, he was remarkably docile. She cradled him in her other hand and examined him. Other than a liberal coating of what was presumably dog slobber, she could find no damage. She agreed to keep him for a couple of days and see if any problems develop. If not, she will let him go in a suitable habitat.

We reviewed what happened and came to this conclusion. The dog found the possum in the yard and embarked on his psychotic episode. The possum fainted. Yes that's right. When possum's play dead, they are not faking. They actually faint and lose consciousness. The dog then retrieved the poor thing to the back deck. Once the dog was removed, he regained consciousness and staggered off to the nearest hiding place he could find. Which is where I found him.

So all is well. I just hope he doesn't have any brothers or sisters.

Information on what to do with found or injured animals can be found at www.friendsoftexaswildlife.org.

Note to Colonel Possum: This story has nothing to do with old hippies but I am posting it to your group for obvious reasons.