Possums are mean, and snarly, FULL of large pointy stabby, gnashy teeth.
That said, when we had a large one snorfuling about the yard I didn’t feel comfortable with killing it either.
This made my girlfriend mad however, she wanted to try out her new crossbow.
We first tried chasing it off with a hockey stick and a snow shovel. The farthest we got was the fence, whereupon it climbed up said fence, flipped us off, and sat there for two full days snarling whenever anyone would get near.
We poked it off the fence to the other side with the hockey stick.
It climbed back on.
Did you know possums can spit?
Apparently they can, and when my gf got a face full of possum phlegm while it was mid-hiss she was really REALLY pushing for the Shis-ka-bob with a crossbow option.
Our compromise was to take the aforementioned hockey stick and knock it into a large plastic trashcan with a lid which we bungeed shut for a 20 mile drive to a wooded area.
This was actually a mistake.
Apparently, PLASTIC trashcans are not up to possum containment. I guess we should have figured that when we took note of his big scary teeth.
We had loaded the Can-O-Possum into the back of our SUV braced so it couldn’t fall over. The first 10 minutes of the ride was noisy as we heard the possum scrabbling around in the plastic can. Then we heard nothing and we had though he settled down for the ride. A few minutes go by and my GF glanced in the rearview to change lanes. She went white and breathed in the highest voice I have ever heard her muster, “Holy F**k!, the possums out!”.
I whipped around in my chair just in time to see the possum delicately balanced like a tight rope walker on the bench seat in the rear.
I’ve been in some pretty hairy situations before. I’ve been surrounded by a forest fire, slipped and fell off a cliff, been robbed at gun point, worked at Wal-Mart during Christmas, but nothing, NOTHING prepared me for the butt-puckering wave of fear that broke over me when that possum opened his mouth to show me his collection of Ginzu knives while he gave a low menacing growl about three feet from my face.
I had the door open and was out standing on the other side of the ditch at the side of the road before my GF got the truck in park. I don’t think I actually touched the ground either. I am pretty sure that I actually took flight in my journey from seat to freak out zone 20 feet away.
My GF joined me and we pondered what to do. We had left both doors open, so we kind of thought that the beast would make his escape in a relatively timely fashon.
Ten minutes later after about the three-hundreth time my gf said “You shoulda let me shoot it” a state trooper pulls up behind our truck. When he came over to ask why there were two women glaring at an SUV parked on the side of the road, running, with it’s lights on and the doors hanging open his first words upon hearing our exclamation were, “Ohhhh… that’s bad.”, and he actually put his hand on the butt of his gun and backed a step away.
He went to go look for something to either corral or drive out the beasty. After several minutes of searching in the trunk of his squad he finally comes striding back triumphantly with, of all things, an ice auger.
We were luckily saved from what he planned to do with said ice auger with the sudden appearance of yon snarly opossum leaning out the passenger side door. He ungracefully scrabbled out and with a final hiss made his escape into the underbrush.
The trooper bid us a chuckled adieu while we went to survey the damages. In a way I guess we were lucky. There was only a few small rips in the fabric of the rear seat, and a sizable chew hole in the trash can. However, we were most astonished at the sheer mass of poop an animal that size was able to turn out. I don’t think I could have gotten more poop outta him if I picked him up and wrung him like a dishcloth.
The poop was spread far and wee. Our trusty SUV ahd become a poop wagon. Little wet sloppy puddles of possum dung festooned the floor, the seats, the BACK of the seats, even the DASH. The was actually a wet drippy runnel down the shift knob. That little bugger really TRIED to make a statement.
I was rather unprepared for the sheer atrocity of the smell. I know may people can describe scents likening them kin to the fresh effervesence of rotting corpses or mouldering piles of used sanitary pads ripening in the sun, but this was quite firmly unadulterated grade -A POOP. With Capital letters. Hell, you could practically see visible smell rays shooting out into the night. I suppose though if Pure Evil is gonna take a crap, it is going to make sure it counts.
It was wet, it was green, and it had the viscosity of hot caramel sauce. Have you ever tried to wipe up reeking possum caramel sauce with a handful of take out napkins and three dirty gym socks?
Let me tell you, it is quite the experience.
Metal Trash Can. Wrapped with chains, and kevlar… and barbed wire…
Hell, next time, she can bring the crossbow as backup.