Wynn and Me and Opossum Makes Three

It’s Andy here today. Ann is over in OurLittleCorner thinking “weighty” thoughts.

It all started a few weeks ago at around 10:30 pm. I had let our dog Wynn out a few minutes earlier in hopes that she would do her evening constitutional without spotting the neighbor’s cat or, worse yet, seeing someone taking a late-night walk down our street with a dog. Either situation would be sufficiently stimulating for a frenzied bark-fest, which I’m guessing would not please our neighbors. 

Wynn did bark on that fateful night, but not in her frenzied mode. It was a methodical and persistent bark.  It was a bark telling me that she had found something interesting and that I should come and check it out.  Praying it wasn’t a skunk, I grabbed my flashlight and found her down by our trash storage area where it appeared she had some critter cornered behind one of the bins. 

Fortunately, it wasn’t a skunk; it was a young possum no more than 8 inches long (excluding its tail). It was a really cute little guy.

Cute as it may have been, its presence created a dilemma.  I couldn’t just leave it there for Wynn to bark at, plus I had no idea of what our cats could do to the little thing.  So I decided I had to relocate it. 

But how does one go about “relocating”  a reluctant possum?  I heard somewhere that throwing a blanket over a wild animal calms it and allows it to safely be handled (assuming it’s not a grizzly bear or mountain lion). I took off my sweatshirt and managed to toss it over the possum. I then carried it to the bushes of a neighboring house that has been vacant for years. As it scurried off into the night I wondered where it would end up.

The next afternoon I discovered where it had ended up. Wynn began doing her possum bark once again; the little bugger had returned to the scene of the crime near our trash bins. Just as I got there, it made a break for it up our driveway. Wynn’s herding instincts kicked in and she corralled it near near some bags of potting soil. This allowed me to cover it for the second time and relocate it to a different area outside of our yard.

To give you some idea of how a Cardigan Corgi “herds” a wild possum, I’ve included a short video of this second encounter. While you’re watching, keep in mind that the Cardigan Welsh Corgi (familiarly known as a “Cardi”) was bred to herd cattle over 3000 years ago. If these 30 pound short-legged dogs were bred to intimidate 1500 pound cows, a one-pound opossum should be a piece of cake.

But the saga wasn’t over. On the third night, at around 10:30, Wynn’s now-familiar possum bark broke the silence yet another time. Wynn was down by the trash bins – again.

By the time I arrived on the scene Wynn was in the driveway sniffing and whining at the lifeless body of the little critter. I felt terrible. I had become weirdly attached to it. The poor little guy just wanted to be left alone and undoubtedly was traumatized by being handled and wrestled around. Or, worse yet, Wynn’s nonviolent herding instinct could have been trumped by her primordial inner-wolf hunt-to-kill instinct. I had read on one web page that in its heyday the “Cardi” acted as “a cattle dog, family guardian and pet, as well as vermin exterminator” (emphasis added).

While I was wondering how to properly dispose of the body, the “dead” possum suddenly came to life and took off down the driveway. I had been duped. Wynn had been duped. That little critter was using an instinctual survival strategy that had been honed over millions of evolutionary years. I can’t tell you how foolish I felt and, at the same time, how relieved I was.

Before ending my saga, I should add that by this time I had done a little research and figured out why the possum might have continued coming back. Its obsession wasn’t with what was in those trash bins, it was with the guava pineapples that had fallen from the trees near the trash bins – making for easy pickings for a plucky young marsupial (which purportedly eats, among other things, mice, rats, snakes, worms, slugs and insects, rotting fruits and vegetables). I should add that in addition to such a diverse diet this amazing creature sports a prehensile tail that looks like a rat’s, opposable thumbs that look like a human’s, a set of over four dozen crocodile-like teeth, and a kangaroo-style pouch for carrying its young.

And here’s how this saga ends. After recovering from the shock from seeing our little friend rise from the dead and head out, Wynn and I once again corralled that plucky little varmint and I once again covered it and once again carted it off to an isolated part of the neighboring lot. This time, though, I left it with a large supply of pineapple guava.

It has been almost three weeks since that last encounter and, as far as I can tell, our little buddy has found greener pastures (or has grown weary of a steady diet of pineapple guava). I was left thinking that one can only be inspired by witnessing this pint-sized marsupial fight to survive in a hostile world with only its wits and a will to live. I’m hoping it is doing well, finds a suitable mate, and produces more of these curious but inspiring creatures.

To honor our brave little friend I recommend preparing a Pineapple Guava Odessa Cocktail and raise a glass to its health.