I went out to gather chicken eggs this afternoon - hopefully eleven eggs, because our dozenth chicken succumbed to something in the cold winter temps last month. So: eleven chooks, and presumably eleven eggs.
What I did not anticipate was a furry body in the dark corner of the hen house, burrowed down in hay.
Dang, I thought. What is it? Coon? Skunk? Dead duck, lying belly-up?
Turns out, it was a possum. Slumbering like he was coming off the world's longest Mardi Gras celebration. What to do, what to do...
I knew what NOT to do, and that was to go inside and yell upstairs to That Spouse o' Mine that we had a possum in the chicken house. Good choice on my part, because he was in a Zoom meeting with about 80 other USDA scientists. I have unknowingly yelled fun farm facts upstairs during Zoom meetings. It's not cool to announce to people in an Ag agency that I am bringing in another chicken into the bathroom...and the like. I have learned restraint in twelve months of pandemic.
Well, I tried tossing things at the possum. I poked him. I put a can of tasty cat food in our live trap. Nothing worked. I took a shovel, in hopes of scooping him up and shovelling him out. Sleeping possums do not scoop up handily. Finally, I took a walk around our pasture/hay meadow. When I came back, Possum was gone. Leave well enough alone, I thought. My friend Lori had a better take: the old possum was just playing...Possum! By George, she was RIGHT!!!
Possum left without killing any chickens or eating any eggs. This is good. Another interesting facet of the afternoon was my collection of eggs, post-possum:
Eleven eggs, but one was laid without a shell.
Huh.
