Anyone that knows our family, knows that I battle possums at the farm on a regular basis -- and here we go again.
Last night, I came home from my day job to enjoy the “peace” of farm life. I started my routine by collecting the eggs. I open the nest box lid and there sits a freakin possum in my “predator proof” chicken coop; an egg held in his creepy little hands!
I screamed. He screamed. I slammed the lid shut.
I collect my nerves and peer in again. Where are my chickens? Possums eat chickens! Did he eat my chickens? Where is my rooster? The mean son-of-a-[gun] attacks me every morning. Why isn’t he attacking the possum? Do I look more menacing than the possum??
I peak in and there are the chickens, huddled in fear in the corner. They all seem accounted for -- the rooster is hiding behind all the hens. Bastard.
The possum is huddled in fear in the opposite corner. Aha! At least something is scared of me!
Feeling empowered, I run in the house to find a weapon. Hmmm….My bow won’t fit through the coop door. Gun? No, only as a Plan B because it’s loud and the chickens are already traumatized. BROOM! Perfect! Out the door I go with the broom.
I open the coop door. I don’t immediately see him. All the chickens are roosting on the bar at the back of the coop. I scan down the line: chicken face, chicken face, chicken face, possum, chicken face… wait.
I carefully reach in with the broom and proceed to beat the crap out of the possum, hitting a few chickens in the process as casulties of war. This, of course, panics the hens who come flying up in my face. I’m beating chickens back with my left hand while wailing the possum with my right. In the meantime, our Great Dane, Max, thinks this is a wonderful game and starts grabbing at the end of the broom. Left hand trying to keep the chickens back, right hand trying to beat the possum with the broom, left leg trying to kick the dog.
Out of the coop goes the possum. He runs into the chicken yard where he does me the favor of showing me the hole in the wire.
It's now dark as I repair the wire while kneeling in the mud as the Great Dane licks me in the face. Max, if you want to help, go kill the damn possum.
Farming in not for the faint of heart, or those with bad aim with a broom.