Tuesday, Mother Nature threw cold rain at us all day. We kept the horses in their stalls all day and evening. Roughly 14 hours of horse manure and pee soaked shavings to constantly scoop. We all took turns.
I got last shift. After class, I ran back home to feed the horses their last hay of the evening, release them after the rains and clean stalls. The dogs were ready to disown me after I finally came home at 10 PM. I was serving them supper by 11 PM, not happy campers.
I tried to talk myself out of checking on the chickens, but I can't sleep well unless I know all of my creatures are fed and tucked in. By head lantern, I planned to give them a midnight snack while they roosted. What I found was a wet pile of chickens outside of the coop. I entered the cramped space of my coop to confront a possum, fast asleep on the hens' electric heating pad. I glared at him, passed out like a drunk with empties all around, eggshells everywhere. Apologies, no actions shots, as my cell phone was in the house, along with the leather gloves I wish I'd had.
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| EXHIBIT "A" the roost with heating block |
I thought of going to get gloves, but the hens had already started to try to follow me in. I was stuck having to evict the possum with bare hands. Speaking of the freeloading marsupial, he'd wedged himself behind the laying box while I had my back turned to shoo the chickens back out. With only a little nub of his tail sticking out, I grabbed it and never let go during our 20 minute hostile negotiation. Not wanting to hurt him, or get bitten, I had to work him free inch by inch, pulling by the tail and untangling, toe by toe. Out of the coop, I then had to run the gauntlet through five overzealous hunting dogs. I held the possum as high as I could, ran and leapt into the bed of the truck to save both of us from the Hounds of Baskerville.
I dropped the possum in the truck tool box until I could find a better place for him to spend the night. I gave him a blankie to keep warm, when I realized this was the only safe place I had for him! Perfect coincidence.
The next day, I gave Luke a lesson in possum wrangling. The critter with his pudgy little belly was thanked for bringing it to my attention that I had a breach in my security, and he was released over 2 miles away.
I looked for faults in the chicken wire netting I have over the coop yard and buried into the ground. I thought it was Alcatraz, but eventually found a gap big enough for a possum or raccoon to slip through inside the laying house. A raccoon would've killed all the chickens and maybe eaten one.
All's well that ends well. None of the animals in this story were harmed.
Peter never knew what the commotion was all about. The old fart had not gotten off the couch.
His favorite game is Dead Dog. A 14 year old mutt with the most wicked sense of humor.
He'll pitch himself off the couch if he hears a Ziploc bag open though. Selective hearing...
