Close encounters of the possum kind

By Murray Montgomery  -  Staff Writer

(Editor’s note: I wrote this many years ago while living in Gonzales – It’s a true story.)

There is nothing like a relaxing evening at home. Kickin’ back, watching television, and just taking it easy. As my wife and I were enjoying this quiet time recently, it happened! A loud scratching sound came out of the living room wall—right behind the couch where my wife was sitting.

“He’s back,” she said. “He must really like us; he comes back every year.”

“Yeah, he’s not hurting anything though; probably just a little squirrel looking for a warm place to stay,” I responded.

That conversation took place about a month ago. Since then, the noise from this pest has become a real problem. In the middle of the night, loud crashing sounds come from the attic. This animal runs and thrashes about, waking me from a sound sleep at two o’clock in the morning! It’s not cute or funny anymore. It’s so loud up there, I don’t know if someone is trying to break into the house or if it’s just my stupid, unwanted visitor having a good time at my expense.

Finally, I decided to go up into the attic and find out just what kind of critter I was dealing with. I’ve seen a possum in the backyard, but he’s too big to get into the wall. Now you must understand, for me to get into the attic is no easy task. Our house has ceilings that are at least 12 feet high. I have to stand on the top step of a six-foot ladder and then “swing” all 235 pounds of me into a three-by-three-foot opening. Once inside the compartment, I can look up into the attic. I accomplished this task with my wife holding the ladder and providing words of encouragement.

Once inside the storage area, I stood up in the attic and began to chuck mothballs toward the front of the house. As I scanned the attic with my flashlight, I heard a racket. Throwing the light beam in that direction, I spotted the creature—one big, ugly possum. Now that I knew what I was dealing with... one of these days... I’d trap him.

But the possum was not content with raising havoc just in the attic; he decided to branch out. While cooking supper one night, my wife screamed from the kitchen, “Murrrray, that thing is in the overhead storage compartment and he has turned on the light up there!”

That did it! Now he was up there with our clothes and the kids’ old stuffed animals. I won’t allow that. Tomorrow at lunch, I’ll run him back into the attic and “nail up” the compartment.

Noon, the next day. Time to go back into the storage compartment, but now it was different. The enemy was up there. Standing on top of the ladder with my baseball bat in hand, I eased the door open. The light was still on; I guess the creature wasn’t concerned about my electric bill.

“Are you sure he’s gone?” my wife asked.

“Of course he’s gone,” I answered. “No way he’ll stay up here in the compartment, not with the way I’ve been poking around with this bat. I guarantee he jumped into the attic.”

With the little woman handing me boards, a hammer, and nails, I began my mission. My body twisted like a pretzel, I lay on my back in the confined storage space and nailed the boards into place over the attic entry. Just as I started to hammer, my bare arm touched the light bulb, inconsiderately left on by the varmint. Okay, now I had a third-degree burn to go with all the other reasons I have to hate this little monster.

Every time I drove a nail, I chuckled to myself, “You’ll not be back in here again, you devil! You won’t have your nasty, fuzzy body contaminating our family’s memorabilia.”

With my eyes and hair full of dirt and insulation, I finished my mission, descending the ladder with a feeling of revenge and accomplishment. Now, to go bandage up my burned arm.

“Murrrray, he’s still in the compartment!” my wife shouted from the kitchen. It was three o’clock in the morning and his frantic scratching had awakened her again.

There was absolutely no way that he was in the storage space. I nailed it shut! I smiled to myself with satisfaction, knowing that the ugly rascal was trying to get back into the storage area, but I had put a stop to that. In the morning, I’d call the Animal Control Officer and see if he could help me figure out how to trap the beast.

All bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I reported to work the next day and called the Animal Control folks. They responded right away. About two hours later, I received a call from my wife.

“Well, he’s gone,” she said, while laughing somewhat hysterically.

“Boy, that guy did a good job going all the way up into the attic to get him,” I answered.

“Oh, he didn’t have to go into the attic,” she laughed. “He opened the compartment door and told me one of our stuffed animals was breathing!”

“What? You mean he was in the storage compartment with me the whole time I was nailing up the attic opening?”

“That’s right,” she replied. “He was right up there with you the whole time. I told you he was there.”

After the phone call, I felt a cold chill as I tried to imagine what would have happened if that thing had jumped me in the tight space. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight. Why do women always have to be right?

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end here. You see, the possum had a mate, and she was still in the attic. This time, however, I got smart and let the professionals handle the problem. As a result, we trapped Mrs. Possum right away. It’s my understanding that these rogue creatures are taken to the old Gonzales landfill and then released. They still haunt my memory, however, and I sometimes dream that the mom-and-pop possums are on the Moulton Road hitching rides back to town—carrying their little knapsacks over their shoulders, trying to find their way back home.