For the Love of ’Possums
This wasn’t the first time and, sadly, probably not the last time that I unexpectedly stepped on an opossum in the dark of evening, with all three heathen dogs watching from the sidelines.
As I do each time, I squealed at the sudden feeling of a chunky hunk of meat underfoot. My eyes dropped, and when I realized it was only an opossum, I sighed with relief. Then I gave the dogs the angriest glare I could summon, while they stood paper-cutout still.
I finished chores, keeping one eye on the dogs, then rounded up the three villains who’d scared the opossum half to death and took them inside. Once I got the dogs settled, I went back out to see if, hopefully, the opossum had fooled us all and was only feigning his death.
Nope, he was still there. I wanted to get my flathead shovel and gently move his body, but from experience I knew I’d pee my pants if he suddenly jumped up and waddled off. I noticed his long, hairless, prehensile tail, which he uses for balance and gripping objects, and I got curious about his thumbs, though not enough to grasp his leg and see them up close. I’d read they have opposable thumbs (on their hind feet!). Heck, this opossum could probably walk a balance beam while texting with his thumbs, something I’d never be able to do, even with hours of practice.
Opossums are the only marsupials north of Mexico in the Americas. The females give birth to jelly-bean-sized babies that they carry in their pouch. When I was a young mother, I’d have loved to put my daughter in my own belly pouch as I went about my day’s work—so convenient, and the baby would be safe. Think of the 24/7 bonding!
I digress. We love opossums here, and although we’d never intentionally try to attract them (because of the no-good dogs!), we welcome their omnivorous opportunism in cleaning up the yard and pens with Louisa and the goats’ leftovers. If I’m not stepping on an opossum in the dark, I’m slipping on tomato guts, a rotting apple core, or goo from the inside of a pumpkin. Waking up to a clean-looking yard without using my rake is always appreciated.
Then there’s tick control! I’m all for not having to rely on my Insect Shield socks, which I order by the dozen every year. Opossums are known for keeping themselves and any area they wander into tick-free. Also, because of their low body temperature, they resist rabies. Bring on the opossums, I want to shout . . . if it weren’t for those dang dogs of mine.
However, while opossums’ natural predators are wolves, coyotes, foxes, and bobcats (three of which we find in our area), dogs and even cats can also hunt them. In fairness, most dogs, or at least mine, don’t set out to kill an opossum. They’re just mad at seeing them in their yard, so they give chase.
Thankfully, nine times out of ten, that chase ends with all three dogs standing over the motionless critter, so still they think it’s dead. It still looks fierce, with its teeth showing (there are 50 in that small mouth), and often the tongue is hanging out; there may also be drool or foaming at the mouth. The technical term for this comatose state is tonic immobility, and “playing possum” is an involuntary response to threat, not a conscious choice. I had to look it up. What I didn’t know, until the dogs came in last night, was that when an opossum’s body goes into a catatonic faint, mimicking a rotting corpse, its anus releases a foul smell to make its death seem even more real. I’d never smelled that foul odor before and never want to again.
That catatonic state can last from minutes to several hours. What an incredible superpower! If you wanted to get out of cleaning the pigpen, or a pesky politician caught you outside in your yard, or your husband was getting feisty over the hundredth time you misplaced your reading glasses... smack, fall over dead, bare your teeth, and stink. I love it.
And I do love opossums! Thankfully, when I went out to do chores the next morning, our opossum was gone.
Well played, Mr. Opossum, well played!