Even in my city-dwelling days, (with one exception, when one mean neighbor who hated children made the kids on the other side of her walk to the shoulder of a busy highway when coming to visit my goats) I have always been blessed with the best. But tonight's episode of the Perils of Pauline, (her Pyrs and her Pygmies) takes the cake. I believe we have a new winner. Let's see if I can paint you a picture...
So Ron is the best neighbor ever. (Period. End of story.)
It has nothing to do with the fact that he has a tractor...or a truck...or a lawnmower...or a seeder. It's not just because he knows more about guns (as does his SWAT officer son) than I'll ever hope to learn. Forget that he knows how to fix a flat, a lawn-mower belt, or smooth out a drive with a scraper. Forget that he repaired my culvert after the rains, and pushed up my topsoil when it wound up downhill. Even if he didn't have attachments galore, even if he didn't dig up (and deliver) his extra monkey grass so I could trim my own flower beds...So what that he has a seeder and spent the weekend spreading fescue seed and clover; never mind his John Deere comes with umpteen attachments, or that he knows how to sharpen tools and replace weed-eater twine. Forget all that. He's just a darn good fella. He'd win the prize even if he didn't have all that other stuff going for him. He's the epitome of a neighbor watching out for a neighbor. (I have a sinking feeling that by now, hearing the words, "Hey Ron, Are you home?" sends a chill down the man's spine. Amazing he even takes my calls anymore, for anymore, the calls grow stranger, and the requests more time-consuming, not to mention they come at the oddest of hours and for the darnedest of reasons, tonight being no exception.)
So I'm in late from Nashville. My church-hosting duties for Room in the Inn now complete...all that's left of my night is to get the goats in, and tote one more water bucket out for the pups.
Only the pups don't come running like they usually do..They've got something cornered; they're circling and growling, snarling and howling by the time I hit the gate.
"What if it's a coyote?" I think. After all, it's their their job... Why that would be exciting! Whatever it is, it's Hix's prize...(In moments like these someone has to win; not a lot of sharing when it comes to claiming a critter.) One flash of my flashlight and everything's clear: Possum-0/ Hix-1... Only the possum isn't dead. Heck, he's not even faking.
Instead, he is quaking (poor little thing), literally teetering in shock and trying to escape having been mauled to the brink of death, but not quite to his death, nor does it appear he's about to meet his maker anytime soon. In a word, the little dude is suffering.
With Rosebud and Tj no longer contenders, the thrill is now gone. Hix sees me coming, and with the attention span of a gnat, comes bolting, tail's a-waggin'just in case I've brought food.
Meanwhile, the possum is pitifully writhing in pain.
Regretting the hour, I text the farm hand anyway...(Should I shoot him? Yes, definitely. It's the humane thing to do.) Only I have 4 very large dogs that at any moment could spring back to play time. What's more, it's now late. Loud shooting wouldn't be neighborly, plus it's hard to hold a flashlight and a gun at the same time...What's a girl to do? (I know. Call Ron!)
He says he was watching a ballgame, but I'm pretty sure he was sleeping. "I'm so very sorry to wake you..." I tell him my saga. The little guy's suffering, and what if I miss?
"You say it's a coyote?"
"Uhhh, No. It's a possum."
(I sense disappointment...Or maybe exasperation. Probably both.) But in true Ron fashion, Ron says, "Ok. Give me a couple.")
Ever heard the expression "chicken with its head cut off"? Well they should make one for possums, cause after 6 - 8 rounds with his 22, the thing is still moving. Ron says it's reflex. "Trust me it's dead." (We are, after all, at fairly close range.) But I'm not so sure.
"Can I shoot it too?"
"You want to shoot it?" (He looks a tad surprised, but then a slight grin...While earlier debating the matter, I had gone for my Glock, just in case...)
"I need to know for sure. Plus, might as well practice." (I think I sensed pride, but to my way of thinking, the man had come out for a possum no less. No guts. No glory. Least I could do was learn from the experience, after all, next time Ron might not answer his phone.
With rain softly starting, the creature's STILL moving...(his little feet pawing, his tail furling, then unfurling) I take aim, line sites to head...and BOOM! (Probably not a lot of possums packing as much lead as this little guy is tonight, but at least I didn't miss.)
What I did do was place my left hand in the wrong position, knocking the crap out of my grip...(Same hand that had an IV drip in 2 days ago; it's pretty much a sea of purple, reds and blues right now, but we got him, dang it. There was definitely no faking for this possum.)
"I did it!" (It was a combination of emotions actually. No fun straight out killing; on the other hand, it was definitely out of its misery.)
Ron tosses the carcass; I tend to my hand... my mind now debating: Casserole or pot pie? Homemade bread or scratch cake? What does one bake for a deed such as this?
After all, it's not every neighbor who'll get out in the rain, kill your possum for you, then allow you to kill your possum all over again for good measure just to add to your late night target training.
Then again, around here, it's just another day (or night) in the neighborhood.
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