I hate those possums.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The continuing saga...
The possum saga, like the possums, just won’t die.
A few days ago I was confident I had finally evicted the possums from my ceiling, by setting up an exit strategy so convoluted that it wouldn’t look out of place in a prison escape movie:
Out of the ceiling, down the sheet, down the ladder, across the planks, through the bars, onto the windowsill, onto the rubbish bin, into the yard...and watch out for those guards!
One possum left immediately. The other one took a while, but I knew they were both out when I could hear them bouncing across the tin roof and rustling in the trees the other night. It was a rainy night, and they didn’t sound happy to be outdoors. They were screaming at one another a lot, probably about whose fault it was that they got evicted. At first I felt sorry for them. I thought about leaving some bread or apple on top of the carport for them but then thought: No, let the little bastards starve. They’ve put me through hell.
But the little bastards haven’t starved.
Yesterday I worked a morning shift. This means that my alarm goes at 5 am, and I stagger out the door sometime around 5.30. It was still dark, still overcast, and I was still asleep. As everyone I work with knows, I don't wake up until 10 a.m. whether I'm at my desk or not. So, leaving home in the gloom, I didn't see anything out of place.
When I got home from work that afternoon I saw it at once. The loaf of bread I’d left on the kitchen bench had been ransacked – there were crumbs and bits of plastic all over the place. I’d been robbed, and I knew exactly who'd done it. Anyone who has read my earlier posts will recognise the symmetry. The whole thing started with bread.