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The Great Possum Massacre
Once upon a time…
Ozark Scoutin' Trip
Trucks and Scaring Fish
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The Night of the Great Possum Massacre
We are a very peace loving folk. I mean, we go by the philosophy of live and let
live. Specially when it comes to critters both domestic and wild. People on the
other hand… well, that’s another story. As I was saying, we don’t normally harm
or kill wild critters unless it’s absolutely necessary to the welfare of our
livestock or ourselves or for food.
At our old place we had a working aquaponics system in place and a chicken coup
and yard attached to the barn. We had made a pact instigated by the "Lady of the
Ranch" with the raccoons in the area. We fed them scraps and cat food and in
turn they left our chickens and eggs alone. For several years this arrangement
worked very well exept for one uppity old fella which we retired one afternoon.
I believe this was mainly because most raccoons are fairly intelligent critters.
We feed them, they stay happy, they leave chickens alone.
Possums on the other hand are not very sociable. They don’t like to make pacts
and they don’t follow requests to leave chickens and eggs alone. And they do
make a nasty mess of the garbage cans.
Our first encounter with a possum occurred when Corey went to make a trash run
from the house to the garbage cans. He was just about to put the bag of garbage
in the can when he heard a hiss and he looked inside the can. There, inside the
garbage can was a very ugly snarling beast, a very pissed off possum who had
fallen into the can to get to the scraps and couldn’t get out. Corey said all he
saw were rows of teeth and one ugly body behind it. Well, being the gentle kind
soul that he is and not having a gun on him, he kicked the can over and let the
possum go it’s merry way. One thing, possums don’t move all that fast.
The next meeting was when a possum decided that chickens and eggs might be an
easy meal since all the chickens were “caged” and the eggs were out in the open.
Mick our wonderful “Lady of the Ranch” who would never hurt a fly, was out to
tend to the plant trays in the barn and gather eggs. She saw this long bare tail
and an ugly body ahead of it. A giant rat? No, it’s our scavenger turned egg
thief. Now remember, Mick is a hippie from way back and had no dealings with
firearms till she was corrupted by yours truly. Considering the size of the
critter, I figure she decided that a broom was too short and would expose her to
a possible possum attack. She went and grabbed her favorite gun. Well, the one
she knew how to use anyway. She returned to the scene of the invader and found
that the possum had not moved very far. Apparently it was stalking an egg, it
didn’t want to alarm it you know. Well, Mick proved that day that, yes she can
hit the side of the barn with the little popper. That is what she preceded to
do. The possum noticed that there were strange holes being drilled around it in
the wall of the barn and decided that a retreat to the woods might be advisable
before it got hit by an accidentally lucky shot. Mick saved the day. No eggs
were stolen.
Now, we come to the point in the story where the title of this essay comes into
play. You see, that same possum decided that his luck was exceptionally good
when it came to his escape strategy from the humans on the ranch. One night, as
Mick was about to feed the cats, ah.. er.. the raccoons, she came running back
into the house screaming about a fierce looking possum in the tree in front of
the porch. I think the possum figured that he could get a free meal before the
raccoons showed up for their evening feeding. All we males of the ranch could
understand was “Kill it.. Kill it.. It snarled at me.. Kill it...” We both
looked at each other and asked her calmly, “What’s the matter?” Mick pointed out
the front door and repeated her former request. I tried to calm Mick down as
Corey went to investigate. He came back in and said for me to get my Big Gun.
Out in the tree was the “Father of all ugly possums” and it was making bad
noises. I went and grabbed my .357 magnum with the special “make mincemeat out
of whatever it hits” bullets and Corey grabbed his trusty .45 auto.
Out we went to face this fierce “man-eater” and stood like two cowboys staring
down a bad guy at a showdown. It snared at us! DANG. It meant business. Ten feet
away in the tree it reared up and bared its teeth and dared us to draw. We
obliged.
BANG! KABOOM! BAM BAM BAM… BABAM … KABOOM!
We scared it out of the tree… it hit the ground running… well… about as fast a
fat turtle could run…
KABOOM! BAM BABAM BABAM BAM BAM…
12 rounds later, after the smoke cleared we figured we had one dead critter… Ah…
nope… the possum’s luck was holding true… it strolled away and stuck its tongue
out at us.
Corey and I hung our heads in shame… Mick was at the door with her hands on her
hip and stared at us, just shaking her head…
Thus ended the night of the great possum massacre… or as it was later to be
known as the night of the bulletproof possum…
That possum never did come back for a rematch…
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