There was a possum in our house. No, not under the house – in the crawlspace darkness or above the house in the box-filled attic. There was a possum in our house.
If you had ever asked me, “Mimi, would you ever let a possum in your house?” I would have answered with a resounding, “Have you lost your mind?” Up until then, I loathed those creatures. They were the ugliest things you can imagine, with their rows of jagged teeth bared in a hiss. They were best known for their ability to be hit by cars. If the post office had a place to display pictures of chicken thieves, the possum would have been front and center.
I was sitting on the back porch the first time I saw it. I thought it was a mouse. Then I saw its strange little face. It was a possum- just about four inches long and prowling around frantically. Now I know you old-timers are shaking your heads right now. My grandmother Miss Hattie would have recommended the flat back of a shovel to put it quickly out of its starving misery. She would have known–let it stay in the vicinity and soon enough it would be cleaning out your henhouse on a nightly basis. But when I looked at that little face peering at me from the darkness of a cleft in the garden tree, I couldn’t leave it to the weather. I couldn’t bash it for its own good. I had to save it.
First I put down a saucer of water and went inside the house to watch it out the window. A pink nose peeked from the cleft in the tree and white whiskers twitched toward the water. Then it peeked a little farther out of the cleft, showing its ghost-white face and jet black eyes. It came out carefully, ears perked and listening for danger. It approached the saucer warily. I watched to see if it would drink, but the possum was so young–not yet weaned and unschooled on the mechanics of drinking. From inside I watched as the baby scurried back and forth, exploring every nook and cranny, looking for something to fill its empty belly. Finally, too tired to look anymore, it curled up in a crevice in some big garden rocks.
That’s when Operation Possum began. First I got a shoebox with some rags in it. I wasn’t sure about those jagged teeth, even in the infant state, so I put on heavy gloves. I placed my hand over the crevice and trapped it. It played dead immediately and I gently picked it up.
As it lay in the palm of my glove, I studied it. Its fur was dark gray with silver tips and its ears were gray and pink. It had tiny paws with graceful “fingers” and on its back feet, the paws looked almost like hands with thumbs. I studied the possum for so long it became convinced that I wasn’t going to eat it after all, so it tried to bolt. I caught it before it got away and put it safely into the shoebox.
Now all I had to do is figure out how to feed it. I called the local experts. Vesta said she’d never had a baby possum and Ralph only knew what grown ones ate. So I called the forestry place. They gave me the number of a guy who does animal rescue. He said they didn’t have the staff to take care of babies and officially because it was a wild animal, I was supposed to leave it where I found it.
Then I turned to the Internet and googled “orphan possum.” I was amazed at how many people are concerned about the welfare of baby possums. One site recommended goat’s milk so I gave that a try. The possum was too weak to drink it so I forced milk down with an eyedropper and rubbed its throat to get it to swallow. This went on for a day and finally, the possum began to drink out of the eyedropper on its own. The first few days I had to feed it often and keep it warm, so I put it in an old cloth purse and slung it around my neck. I had become a marsupial mama.
I named her “Blossom” and eventually she started eating solids …scrambled eggs and baby food. I asked the wildlife guy how difficult it would be for her to transition from eating baby food off a china saucer and finding its own food in the wild. He said, “not to worry.” Apparently, possums revert quickly back to wildness and since they’re omnivores, they can eat pretty much anything. As long as there’s an abundant water source, they can survive.
It’s hard to explain how love happens, or why it happens. It might be because Blossom was helpless and wouldn’t survive without me. Her need was greater than my prejudice against her kind. Eventually, her needs grew beyond my ability to care for her and I took her to a vet who had been known to take baby animals. He said, “You know, my daughter is home from school for the summer and she loves baby possums. She can take care of her.” I left Blossom with the vet but have never forgotten her strange little face.