Shall I set the stage for you? It's Tuesday night, nine o'clock, and the Oklahoma night is silent except for the persistent wind and occasional bark of a dog. The Little Man is fast asleep in his room, and the husband is back on that dead cacti infested Army base where we began our blogging journey almost three years ago, yes, the inimitable Camp Bullis with its awful cell phone reception and equally spotty internet. The pregnant belly and I are sprawled out on the couch with a cup of coffee (decaf!) recuperating after a long day of playgrounds, pumpkin bread, and preschool children. Then suddenly I hear a sound.
The sound of rustling. And thumping. And crunching.
The cat is still on the couch with me. The dog is still taking his last potty break in the yard. And Alex only thumps. He doesn't rustle or crunch. Then I realize that the sound (oh, inadequate word!) is emanating from the garage. My first thought, I admit, was "What idiot is dumb enough to break into the house of a Security Force's wife?" I could have a dozen cops at my doorstep with drawn weapons in the space of 5 minutes. And we live in such a sleepy little town that said cops would be more than happy to have a little bit of such excitement. But then I realized that I'd heard that crunching sound before. It sounded awfully like...dog food being eaten?
It was at that point that I remembered our only partially closed garage door. It sticks a bit at the bottom, and since today was trash day, I hadn't gotten it completely shut when I'd pulled the trash bin back in. Something had crept under the garage door and gotten into the dog food. And while I hoped that something was a stray dog or cat, the chances seemed fairly slim.
Screwing my courage to the sticking point but forgetting that I had a broom in the kitchen, I grabbed the Man's old racquetball racket, and tentatively opened the door into the garage. And peaking out of the bag of dog food was a long, thick, rat-like tail! Closing the door as quickly as possible, I realized that even I know they don't make rats that big in Oklahoma. Conclusion: there is a opossum in my garage. Further conclusion: I am too chicken to take it on.
It could be rabid!
Enter across the way neighbor and now absolute most appreciated friend I will ever make in my entire life who, on receiving an incoherent text message including the word "possum" (yes, misspelled in the heat of the moment) and more than enough exclamation points, sends her husband and nephew (and their broom) to save the day. Without me even having to ask. Seriously. She's that awesome. Her husband and nephew are also that awesome. I am still not awesome. Just chicken. I did, however, man up enough to video tape the ensuing excitement:
Apologies for the shaky camera work and all the squealing. And, as an apologetic note to poor Josh and his slandered good name, in retrospect, I realize that the couch that we have not yet gotten rid of was NOT what lured the opossum in. Mea culpa. [Edit: reloaded the video as it wasn't playing and for some reason it uploaded twice. Hopefully one of them will work this time!]