On Marsupials

When I bought my first house fifteen years ago, I knew it needed a lot of work. I loved the remodeling, putting in new floors, painting, the three weeks spent on sanding down the wood kitchen cabinets, making them look antique. My two cats loved it, too. The big back yard with its fruit trees, the pond; no fish, though. My roommates of the feline variety would try to hunt and kill any fish I put in there. And that would be just cruel to the fish. Hence, fish-less pond.

        They also weren’t too fond of an uninvited house guest of the North American marsupial variety. Yeah, an opossum decided the space beneath the backyard porch was the property of its dreams. Never mind that it wasn’t wanted. Some creatures just don’t have manners.

        I tried everything to get it to leave. Instead, it reproduced. You’d think there would have been a birth announcement or some other courtesy. Nope. My notification came when I glanced out the kitchen window one morning and watched two mini-opossums hustling through the yard. Damn it, I thought. My cats, sitting on the porch, watching the mad dash of the strange animals, swishing their tails, not too bothered by the intruders.

        I try to be a conscientious cat owner and accordingly, worry for their safety. Are opossums dangerous to cats? I ask the vet. No, she said, especially since the cats have had their rabies shots. Gulp.

        But that is behind us. I sold that house three years ago, moved six different times (a tale for another occasion) and now, I’m here. My cats and I are happily situated in a small but cozy mobile home outside of the city. It’s quiet, easy to clean and comes with a nice backyard. The space rent isn’t too bad, either. Neighbors keep to themselves. Perfect.

        It’s my first winter here and it’s going to be a cold one. The cats burrow into the blanket on the bed, the smell of slow-cooking stew penetrates the seven-hundred and some square foot dwelling. Using the term ‘house’ feels like a misnomer. Its too small for that. But it is home. I finish the dishes by hand. No dishwasher. I haven’t done dishes by hand long enough to be bothered by it. The sound of porcelain clinking, water swishing down the drain, the occasional moan houses make when temperatures change. I dry my hands, marveling at the silence.

       The wood beams behind the walls groan as their water content expands. The sub-floor feels more rigid and the occasional creaking has me worried at first.

        “Creak.” I jump, ever so slightly. This one came out of the bathroom. My roommates, sleeping snuggled into the blankets, don’t flinch. Can’t be that bad if they’re not bothered by it. I reassure myself and go about my chores.

        “Creak.” There’s a few more of them over the next few hours and I ignore them. Although, I could have sworn that in between the third and the fifth ‘creak’ was a ‘scratch, scratch’. I’m probably wrong. And since the last creak came from the laundry area, I’m confident that going into the bathroom will cause no harm. Like, falling into the crawlspace or something. Then I remember that I had the exact same worries at all the other places I lived. I laugh, march into the bathroom and get ready for bed. My feline accomplices trot next to me, tales swishing as if to tell me to hurry up. Of course, it’s entirely possible that they’re walking next to me hoping for an opportunity to trip me up. Never can tell with them.

        My new mattress is non-lumpy, firm and large enough to be comfortable even while I’m being squished into the corner to make sure the cats have enough room. They’re purring as their little pink tongues fastidiously groom each other. Can’t go to bed with dirty fur. I, having completed my cleaning ritual in the bathroom earlier, drift off to sleep to the sound of happy cats. Daily mission successfully accomplished.

        I wake knowing something’s wrong, but not yet sure what. I lean up, turn the light on. No cats. Unusual. I glide out of bed. ‘Scratch, pause, scratch, pause, meow’. A ‘something’s up and I want to know what it is’ meow. Coming from the bathroom. As I turn the light on, two gray faces stare up at me. They’re lurking next to the heating vent. I hear a sudden thump, feet rushing. The floor beneath my mobile home is earth, not cement. I leave the bathroom, open the door to the backyard and, dressed only in a tank-top and shorts, speed down the two steps. I throw myself on to the grass, level with the skirt that covers the two feet between the structure and the earth. There’s a hole dug out large enough for a small dog. It’s the first time I’m seeing this. How come I haven’t noticed this before? Not really the issue right now. I’m bossily telling myself. I peer thru the hole, trying to see what’s making the noise beneath. But it’s dark down there and I didn’t bring a flashlight.

        Only after sitting up does it occur to me that ‘the thing’ could have dashed at my face, bitten me. Do they make rabies vaccines for humans? I make a mental note to google the question.

        I lean my head against the metal skirt, trying to hear anything. Nothing. Neither does anything dash out. Whatever it is, it’s on guard. But I already know that my unwanted sublet renter is either a stray cat, a racoon or an opossum. Regardless of the species, it will be helpless against my weapons. Just like the last unwanted house guest. Then I remember that he actually never left that place. It’s probably still lurking there, annoying the new owners.

        For the purpose of my battle plan, it doesn’t matter if it’s cat, racoon or opossum, all three are easily lured with canned cat food. What matters is that it’s dusk, the time for these rambunctious creatures to come out. The difficulty lies with keeping my domesticated partners out of the trap, so the house is closed down and they get their own canned treat just to keep them quiet. I take my position at the nearest window, live trap ready and in good view. An hour later, success. It’s an opossum, again. My memory ventures into the past, the moment when yet another opossum decided to make my place its home. Or is the same one and did it follow me? I remember stories of lost dogs and cats, traveling thousands of miles to find their owners. I laugh. Hardly the same thing. But I do feel sorry for this animal and promise myself I’ll move it to a safe place.

        “What do you mean, just leave it be?” I’m on the phone with some wildlife specialist from Eugene. I called, wondering what I should do with my quarry. She tells me to release it. They’re not harmful to domestic animals, especially since all dogs and cats are required to be vaccinated for rabies. State law, she says. I can hear a tone of lowered expectation in her voice. I’m offended. My cats are vaccinated of course. Who does she think she’s talking to?

        In my euphoria of success, I had expected congratulations, a ‘good job for being animal friendly and not just shooting the darn thing’, or some such. Instead, I can hear her glaring at me over the phone. How dare me trapping that poor animal. I feel duly guilty. I hang up, walk into the backyard and open the live trap. My undomesticated opossum scurries away, squeezing right back under my house. I’m wondering if I should worry about it damaging anything.

        It’s the weekend and, sadly, I have no other plans, except to remove a portion of the metal skirt, crawl into the space between, this time with a flashlight. My guest had dug a hole in the ground, just underneath my bathroom and cushioned it with grass clippings or something like that. I can’t see any damage done to anything. I spend another hour crawling around in the dirt when I finally give up. I can’t charge that animal with any damage, what-so-ever. Clean get away.

        I crawl out, clean up, put the flashlight away. But I leave the skirt open for now. I grab my car keys and drive into town to the nearest Goodwill store. There, I purchase a couple old blankets. Two pet dishes, one for water, one for food. They even have an old, large, litter box with a lid on it. I get that, too. That’s to provide some protection while still having an opening to come and go as it pleases. Then I go back home.

        I know when it’s time to give up.