Possums Play Possum

On Saturday night we came home late from a really lovely Italian dinner in the city. We let the dogs out, skritched the cats, and brought the dogs back in. While we wandered about shutting off all the lights and locking all the doors, Grace all of a sudden went mad. Growling, hackles raised, racing about the dining room. At first it looked like she was going after Maddie, and given the horror of the turtle we're a little sensitive about pets these days. So I yell "Gracie, no!" and she keeps going and dips her head into a corner formed by a pile of boxes and a wall and comes out with a grey, furry THING she drops on the carpet.

I scream. What else do you do in such situations? I think it's a rat, a large rat, a large dead rat, and I'm so grossed out I can barely think straight. Ms. P attempts to say she's done enough dead animal work recently, but I'm freaking out so badly she can't hold to it. I run into the basement to get a shovel so we can pick up the dead rat, then I creep into the dining room and look at the animal. Not a rat. A possum. We stand around and freak out some more, then Ms. P says, "Oh no! Possums play possum! What if is isn't dead?" So we peer under the dining room table, and there it is, holding its head up and looking at us.

I completely lose my shit. I like to pride myself on being fairly levelheaded and able to deal with crises, but apparently those don't include large rodents in my dining room. Ms. P calls R, who tells us to call Animal Control. Six phone calls later, we finally get someone who will come remove said possum from our dining room, but it will be about an hour. "Keep an eye on it," we're told.

We put in Real Genius and checked on the possum every so often. I should say Ms. P checked on the possum every so often. At one point, though, she looked for it and it wasn't there. Another freakout ensues. It had moved behind the boxes where it's darker. We've turned all the lights on and played the movie loudly and sometimes even screamed at nothing (me) just to ensure it keeps playing dead out of fear. Eventually animal control shows up and basically just picks up the possum and puts it into a wire cage. It's a small possum, an adolescent probably, and terrified. After the fact I feel compassion for the possum.

Unanswered questions:

1. How did it get in the dining room? I know smallish animals can get into the basement from outside, but how did it get from the basement to the dining room? The cat comes in the basement door when we open it to her meows, but it was closed. R's theory is that it came up the pipes to the washing machine, and the washing machine is close to the dog food, which it may have smelled. Animal control's theory was that one of the dogs brought it in, but I don't think Grace would have reacted that way if she brought it in herself.
2. How did none of our four predators, in the house all of them, not NOTICE said possum invading their territory? Not that I wanted it dead, mind you, I'm just confused as to how it wasn't dead. (Well, besides fooling the dog with that playing dead thing.)
3. Why, exactly, does this squick me out so much?

Comments

[frog]

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