Sometimes taking out the trash can be terrifying. Our large trashcan is wheeled, and I roll it
out the bumpy alley to our front corner the night before trash day. It’s got a hinged top, which is convenient,
but occasionally makes me geek out a little, because some of those bumps make
the lid settle down some more, and it pushes air out of the trashcan onto my
hand, and it feels like something is breathing on my hand from inside the
trashcan. It’s a creepy feeling, but
it’s all in my head, right?
Wrong.
I have good reason to fear the discovery of living creatures
in our refuse. I have good reason to
fear the discovery of unfriendly
living creatures in our refuse.
Why? Simple: it’s happened
before.
My husband is gone for 24 hours once every four days working
as a firefighter. Those twenty-four
hours tend to be the time frame within which all hell breaks loose in our
household. On one of his work days about
two years ago, I was home alone in the afternoon cleaning up from my dinner
prep before leaving to pick up the kids from daycare. I had finished up something in a recyclable
container, so I did what I always do: rinsed it out, opened the back door,
leaned out, and tossed it into the recycling bin about 1 foot from the
door. Until the container reached the
bin, all was well. When the container
landed, the recycling bin hissed at me. It hissed!
Ho.ly.crap.
Recovering my composure (but not my dignity) after doing an incredible Nosferatu impression,
I leaned over to glance inside the bin, ready to jump back inside and slam the
door shut if anything came out at me. I
am still in disbelief at what was inside.
An opossum.
“But wait, Dani,” you’re asking me, “Don’t opossums ‘play
opossum’ when they feel threatened?” That question
entered my mind as well, but I had loud, distinct evidence that this is not a hard and
fast rule for the species. This bugger
was pissed. It was so angry that it refused to amble off
in disgust muttering under its breath.
No, this thing was ready to fight for its right to go through our
refuse... in the middle of the day, I
realized. And yes, before you ask,
opossums are nocturnal. Now we’re all
thinking the same thing: rabid opossum, yay!
Right.
At this point, I closed the door and assessed the situation
as I finished things up inside. My
husband was away, and there was a possibly rabid opossum stationed a foot away
from the back door. I park behind the house. I use that door when returning home with our children, who were
one and three years old at the time. Crap.
Dad to the rescue! My
dad works about 5 minutes from our house, and the end of his workday happened
to be during the time I’d be out of the house to pick up the kids. So I called him at work, gave him the
extremely abridged version of my situation, and asked if he could stop by on
his way home to see if he could (safely) help.
I may have mentioned exactly where we keep our shovel as well. He said he’d attempt to do what he could, but
advised me to use the front door when I brought the kids home just in case. I also went out he front door and walked all the way around the
house to get to my my car in order to avoid another one-on-one confrontation with the little
devil.
We returned home to an opossum-free recycling bin, and the
news that no shovel had been required.
The window well of the empty house next door had a new resident, though
he didn’t last there very long. I didn’t
mind, as he was such a grumpy neighbor.
So, if you’re ever driving by my house after dark on a
Monday night and see me running back the alley like a lame gazelle, please
don’t worry or call in the men in white coats, I’m just having an opossum
flashback. It will pass.
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