Ash vs. Possum, Round II

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know I have a flock of laying hens. I've learned a lot from keeping chickens, including the facts that 1) I now consider store-bought eggs to be no more than tasteless goo, 2) keeping chickens is addictive and hopefully wherever I go in life a few chickens will follow, and 3) that sometimes chickens just keel over and die for no apparent reason, so it's best not to become emotionally attached. Also, 4) chickens are incredibly dumb so that helps with the emotionally attached part.

Lately I've been having chicken troubles. In the past couple of months, I've lost 3 - two just seemed to have laid down and given up the good fight, and one snatched in the dark of night by some mysterious predator. One night a couple of weeks ago while checking the coop I came face-to-face with one of these predators - a possum. (I guess the correct name is "Opossum", but we're in the Ozarks and I've never in my life heard them called anything but a possum except on TV.) This particular possum was pretty laid back as possums tend to be, despite the fact that I was pretty angry that he was in my coop. I found a stick and whacked and poked him until he decided maybe it would behoove him to leave, and he slunk out of the coop and under the so-called "predator proof" electric fence. I called Lucy, who back in her younger years was a possum-killing fool, to take care of the problem. After giving the possum's butt a good sniff, Lucy ambled over to see what I wanted. Some guard dog. The possum scooted off to the woods.

After securing the chickens for the night in the coop, the next day I re-checked the fence, mowed the chicken yard, and was confident things were secure. And they were, until a few nights ago.

I had gotten in late that evening and rushed around doing my evening chores, and I was a bit distracted by keeping one eye on the sky for the meteor shower predicted for that night. I shut the chickens in the coop and went indoors to watch a movie until the shower was supposed to be brightest. At midnight I meandered outside to watch the sky, but my attention was drawn to the chicken coop where I heard frantic scratchings coming from the "upstairs" enclosed area. I ran to the coop with my flashlight, counted the chickens piled up in the "downstairs", and when all were accounted for opened the egg-access door - to meet the same possum. At least it looked the same. I had inadvertently shut him in the coop WITH the chickens. Doh! Lucky for me (and the chickens) he was too frantic trying to get out to have a chicken snack, but he had made short work of the eggs I hadn't gathered.

Once again, I poked and whacked him with a stick. This time instead of leaving the coop he jammed himself up in the far corner. I left the coop to see if he'd come out. He didn't. At this point I was SO tired, and pretty darn irritated at the possum. I figured I had to shoot him because this was a repeating problem, but I didn't want to shoot him in the coop and make a mess. I had to get him out of the coop. What I needed was a lasso. I scoured the barn and came up with a 50' piece of rope, tied my slipknot, and went to work trying to lasso the possum. After 15 minutes and with the help of my trusty stick, I got the loop over his head and dragged a VERY irate possum out, taking full advantage of the 50' of rope. After I got him out of the chicken yard and over the "predator-proof" fence I wasn't sure what to do. The shotgun was in the house, and I was standing in the yard with a possum on a rope in the middle of the night. For the sake of my chickens, I couldn't just let him go. I did what any logical person would do - tied him to the big yard light pole while I retrieved the gun.

*I think hubby would appreciate me noting that he was NOT home at the time of these shennanigans.

By the time I returned with the loaded 12 gauge, the possum was sitting calmly at the end of his rope. I reminded myself of my hen's safety and walked up to the possum and aimed right between his eyes. His beady little eyes. Looking right at me. Crap. He was only a young possum doing what possums do...and to think of all the baby possums I've raised. Crap.

I couldn't do it. I can dispatch a deer with no problem, help hubby dress it, and grind the meat myself. I can shoot a turkey in the face and do a victory dance, then fry up his breast with a side of green beans feeling no remorse. I can even process my own meat chickens. But I can't dispose of an egg-sucking, probable chicken-killing possum.

Now what? I couldn't let him go. Well, I couldn't let him go HERE. I untied the rope and led the possum to the truck. And, you guessed it, got him up in the bed and tied the other end to a support post. Good thing he was a possum...a raccoon would've eaten my face back at the coop with the stick-poking. This possum by now was either on Valium, stunned into complete shock, or resigned to his fate. Indeed, he seemed to be undecided as to whether now was an appropriate time for the "playing possum" act. I hopped into the truck and tried to think of where to drop him. I didn't want to plague some other hapless chicken-owner with my problem possum, so I decided to go out to the Wildlife Management Area about 5 miles away.

Then it occurred to me...what if I got pulled over? Here I was, 1:30 a.m., in my pajamas, no license, in an old Ford truck with a possum tied to a support post in the bed. Just another night in Arkansas. That's probably the best explanation I could give to a cop at that point.

I successfully reached the WMA, worked the rope off with my stick, and the possum scooted off into the woods to take his chances around less-crazy beings. I returned home at 2 a.m. and fell into bed.

If that possum turns up again, I AM shooting him. I think. By the way, my husband thinks I'm certifiable. I'm not sure he's wrong.