Night of the Possum IV
Posted by: amazinggraze <amazinggraze@...>
indeed. A lifetime has been compressed into a tale of one night's
adventure. I thank you for indulging the whim of an old (I turn 40 in
November), grizzled (someone actually called me that the other day)
traveler. But if you'll indulge me but a few moments more, you will not
go away unsatisfied. However, I must warn you: those of you, who do not
do well with Wagnerian endings, might want to turn back now and continue
no further. As is so often the case for those who struggle by the sweat
of the brow under the curse; this tale has no happy ending.
As the light of the barn shown down into the cardboard box, I saw for
the first time clearly the state of the two unfortunate occupants. I
must have damaged the possum more than I had initially realized. It was
still snarling and snapping, but it showed definite signs of weakening.
The chicken, on the other hand was a different story.
Alas, the poor hen was in grave condition. From the neck down, I
couldn't see any critical injuries, but it was her head that had
received the brunt of the brutality. It was painfully obvious that the
poor girl's neck had been broken. Her entire head was torn and covered
in blood, and it could but flop involuntarily from side to side. Her
eyes were shut tight. I knew at that moment that one of my favorite
hens would not survive.
My unpleasant duty this night was now two-fold: eradicate the deadly
pest and alleviate the suffering of the dying hen.
The possum seemed to have calmed down enough for me to remove the
pitchfork and reposition it. This time it would be with a more deadly
blow! With the pitchfork piercing the possum's body, I could finally
remove it from the box. I scooped the impaled beast on to the ground,
but it still refused to release its tenuous grip on life.
I could now safely pull the chicken from the box. I laid her soft,
plump body, now torn and broken, next to the possum. She too was still
holding fast to life. I felt overwhelmed by the frustration of the loss
and the thought of the grizzly task that lay before me.
I did not have my knife, nor could I reach anything else that I could
use to dispatch the two animals that were struggling on the ground
before me. Then I spotted a bucket sitting under the water faucet next
to the barn door. I took up my possum-on-a-stick (probably a delicacy
in some parts of the country) and shoved it to the bottom of the pail.
I turned on the spigot and let a fountain of crystal clear water flow
out and quickly engulf the unhappy possum. The weight of the pitchfork
(still attached) kept it submerged.
With the possum finally taken care of, I turned to the chicken. Was
there anything worth salvaging? How badly had the body been mauled
under that downy coat? But for some reason, even if the flesh was in
good shape, it seemed not right to think of preparing this hen for the
pot. As I picked up the hen, I wondered how she could still be alive in
this wretched condition. Without further hesitation, I plunged her into
the bucket.
There, in that icy well water, in the dark silent depths of a watery
grave, villain and victim past quietly from this world's stage. And I,
exhausted and drenched from the rain, walked solemnly back to the house.
--The End--