The night of the possum part 3
Posted by: amazinggraze <amazinggraze@...>
into the unsuspecting chicken-killing beast of the underworld. To
strike deep, and by striking, revenge! The clucks of so many chickens,
whose innocent blood was needlessly spilt, rang in my ears. No Celtic
clansman ever felt the heat of battle more than I at that moment. Had
my soft-handed, software coding colleagues looked upon me then, they
would not have recognized me. So transformed was I. Some deep-lying
aboriginal fire now burned in my breast. And my spirit became one with
every warrior who has stood against evil oppression to defend home and
coop. No longer am I Chris, the software tester; call me Pong, Possum
killer! (this is so silly)
When the mist of battle fury and blood lust cleared my mind, I realized
that I hadn't quite succeeded in killing anything. I was glad to see
that I had missed the chicken. But it seems I managed only to pin the
possum with my pitchfork rather than actually pierce it. The giant rat
was not only still alive, but now rather annoyed. Yet, lucky for me, it
was unable to move. For the first time since I had arrived on the scene
of the crime, the criminal had given off its attack. Now it sat glaring
up at me with a look of evil intent. It growled and bared its sharp
little dagger teeth. The animal didn't appear wounded, but I couldn't
reload the pitchfork for another try for fear that the feral fiend would
flee -- or worse, fight. It was a stalemate. I stood in the doorway of
the chicken coop gripping the pitchfork unsure of my next move.
At this point, I still could not get a good look at my chicken.
Occasional flutters and muffled squawks told me that the thread of life
had not been completely severed. I wore no gloves, so I didn't dare
reach in past the gnashing maw of the menacing marsupial. Neither could
I let up on my hold of the pitchfork. I decided I needed better light
to deal with the situation. I only had one choice. I ended up dragging
the box heavy with possum and chicken, without leaving off pressure on
the pitchfork -- a rather undignified maneuver for a primeval warrior of
my stature and renown -- out of the coop, through the chicken yard, and
finally arriving under the light of the barn.
Standing in the rain, under the beam of a halogen light and leaning on
the pitchfork, I could look into the cardboard box and finally make out
the condition of the hen. As I mentioned, this is one of our favorite
chickens. She and her twin sister are of the race called Pale Brahman.
These are plump white hens with black markings on their wings and tails
and around the collar of their necks. They have the special
characteristic of having feathered feet. They are also fine layers.
The hen gave a great shutter and turned over. I could now see that...
Woops, I've been writing this all morning (great literature takes time).
I'd better try to get a little work done before lunch. Come back
tomorrow for the final episode of The Night of the Possum!
-----Original Message-----
From: Christopher Haymond [mailto:chrisha@microsoft.com]
Sent: Wednesday, August 15, 2001 9:42 AM
To: familycow@yahoogroups.com
Subject: RE: [familycow] Re:Doing Better but Still Too Quiet !!
...a large...a large...
Now, it may be possible that I've built this up a little too much.
Knowing that I live in the Pacific Northwest, some of you (especially
those east of the Mississippi) are probably thinking that there was a
Grizzly Bear or Timber Wolf or possibly a King Salmon in my chicken
coop. So I hope the truth doesn't disappoint too many of you. Nor is
this some sort of Big Foot tale. But I assure you that the events of
this story actually happened, though, I'll grant that I've added one or
two slight embellishments to add drama. Did I mention, I've been
reading Hemmingway this summer? But I digress. Back to the story!
... a large possum. Ugh!... a big, fat, ugly ol' possum with its beady,
black eyes staring at me, and hissing through its needle-like teeth.
It was in a cardboard box on the floor of the coop. When I recovered
from the initial shock, I realized it wasn't looking at me at all. It
hadn't even noticed me. The giant rat-beast was sitting on top of one
of my favorite hens. The possum's full attention was given to
scratching furiously with its pointy little claws and tearing feathers
out by the paw-full. I could tell my poor hen was still alive, but I
couldn't assess the damage.
What to do, what to do... Save the chicken, kill the possum. I need a
weapon. I didn't have a weapon. I ran into the barn. Weapon, weapon,
where's a weapon. Ah, I spotted a
--->WARNING: THE REMAINING PORTION OF THIS STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC
VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE TO ALL AUDIENCES. THOSE OF IMMATURE
MORAL COUNTENANCE (CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF 12 AND MOST VEGANS) MAY NOT
WANT TO CONTINUE READING.<---
pitchfork -- not one of those sharp manure forks, but a four-tine, blunt
garden pitchfork. Surely, I thought, the beast has fled. But when I
got back to the coop, there he sat mauling my hen. The chicken
continued to struggle under the savagery of her attacker. I raised the
pitchfork ready to strike. Oh, the blow had to be perfect. I didn't
want to hit the white feathery pile, but if I missed the possum, the
marauder would escape -- and if he got away, he'd surely return another
night.
In fact, I was now sure that I was face to face with the very villain
that had been mercilessly killing hens for the past several months. At
one point we had ten chickens that roosted in the barn (instead of the
coop). One after the other, each fell prey to the brutality of a
nightly raider. It's always the hens too -- never the roosters. In the
morning, I would open the barn to find a pile of feathers and pieces of
chicken. I would always ask, but none of the animals in the barn had
heard or seen anything -- at least they never admitted it. Why they
would cover for this rat I never found out. I suspect he was
black-mailing the horses and had paid off the roosters, some sort of
Chicken cabal. The cow may have actually hired the possum since the
chickens were sitting right over her head. The truth may never be
known.
Sitting now in the quiet and security of my air-conditioned office, I
can still recall every nuance of that fateful instant: Pitchfork poised
to strike, the glint of the steel tines, the rain pinging the metal roof
of the coop, the dog barking, and off in the distance a truck
down-shifting on the interstate.
With a flash of lightening and the speed of a cobra...
Oh, my. I'd better get back to work. Stay tuned to this channel,
ladies and gentlemen, for another thrilling episode of >>The Night of
the Possum<<.