Possum in a Bucket

"Mom, Don has a baby possum in a bucket down at his store. And it's scared to death."

Oh no! Joker Don and his red-neck friends.

I flew into action. Snatched up my smallest animal cage. Packed a bag of warm milk, eyedropper, rags and paper towels. Grabbed my Super-Woman cape and put it on as I ran to the car. (Haven't perfected the art of flying yet.) It was cold. I should have brought more warm rags.

I skidded up to the door of Don's store and took a deep breath. Walking in with all the aplomb of a potential customer, I looked around until I saw the bucket. "Whatcha got in the bucket, Don?"

He stuck it up in my face, expecting me to jump and scream. Inside, the poor little fellow tried to hide behind a single clump of leaves.

"Oh, isn't that sweet. Whatcha going to do with it?"

"I don't know, let it loose later, I guess."

There was no way the baby would have survived on it's own. It had already been too long without food, considering Don brought it in that morning and it was nearly noon.

"How about I take it off your hands?"

"Yeah, I guess I've had all the fun I'm going to get out of it."

I snatched it out of the bucket and was out the door before Don could change his mind. I'd left the heater on in the car. I unveiled the milk. Of course, just like Opie, he didn't want any part of that hard glass eyedropper. But I've never had any luck with the bottles made for feeding orphaned animals. They either can't get anything out of it, or it comes out so fast they could drown. With an eyedropper I'm able to release exactly the amount I want. In the beginning they lick it off their lips (do possums have lips?) And within a day or two they don't care how hard it is, they jam it down their mouths and go for it.

He drank his fill and I put him under my sweater, against my warm skin where he promptly fell fast asleep. Phooey on the cage. This guy needed some one-on-one. I decided to call him Soupy (short for Marsupial).

I had every intention of keeping him only until he could survive in the wild. The criteria being: approximately fifteen inches in length - not including the tail. And having the ability to catch his own insects. And, oh yes, no imprinting allowed. :-) I had to keep our relationship impersonal. Okay, I can do that.

Soupy had different ideas about where he would spend the rest of his life. (He told me in confidence that road-kill was not his idea of good eatin'.) Mushrooms, avocado, broccoli, lemon yogart. Lots of lemon yogurt. Now that's good eatin'!

I made him follow his National Opossum Society Diet for the most part. Oh well, it's still better than road-kill.


Check out the latest pics, below!

Born to be Free

Opie accompanied me to work every day. I had a dream job. A little office in the country, where I showed up in the morning to see the workers off . . . and spent the rest of the day alone, waiting for the phone to ring. (It seldom did. I felt like the Maytag repairman.) I had lots of time to entertain Opie. (And watch her sleep).

I captured June-bugs and grasshoppers for her discriminating palate. She'd hold them - a wing in each little hand. (Possums have opposable thumbs, so they can grab things a lot like a human would.) Then she'd chomp the body. I had to turn my head - I felt sorry for the bugs. We went for long walks at dusk. When she was ready to call in a day, she'd climb up my leg. We became quite close.

I didn't realize what a problem that would be. When it came time to release her - she refused to leave. I took her out in the woods near a little creek, thinking it would be the ideal place for a possum to live. Putting her on the ground, I turned to run. Only to feel her catch a hold on my jeans and climb up. (They can move pretty fast when they want to.) I could have outsmarted her and gotten away. But she was so completely imprinted. With that kind of attachment to me, could she make it on her own? I wasn't willing to gamble with her life. I'd know the next time, to keep my association with wildlife a little less personal.

So she became a permanent resident. The cats hissed at her (biggest rat they'd ever seen) and the dog wasn't comfortable in her company. Used her for a fire hydrant once. So I took her most places with me. She slept under my jacket clinging to my shoulder. One day, standing in line at the hardware store, Opie got a little too comfortable. In a deep sleep, she released her grip on my clothing and fell from under my jacket.

Plop!

Right at the feet of the little blue haired old lady standing behind me. Opie looked around, stunned. (Looking a lot like a dazed, long-haired rat.) The lady screamed. I thought she was going to faint. I scooped Opie up, put my intended purchases down, and made a hasty exit. Hoping there was another hardware store in town I could patronize in the future.

Thus began my life-long love affair with opossums. Opie was the first in a long line. I've learned to be careful to not imprint them. Until . . . Soupy came along. I think HE imprinted ME.

But more about him later. There've been many foster-possums in my life who need their fifteen minutes of fame, first. Like the three babes delivered to me by a well-meaning neighbor. I was getting ready to make a trip to Houston and there was no room at the Inn (rehab center). So, I made a trip to Houston with three baby possums in a bird cage. And an extra carrying case full of dried possum-mother's milk, eyedroppers, rags and cleaning supplies. Please don't ask me who milks the mother possums. I've wondered that myself.

What most people don't realize about opossums is -  they're nearly defenseless. They'll hiss and show their teeth. (Fifty of them. More than any other mammal. Making them look really fierce.) If that doesn't work, they run. If all else fails, they play dead. That's it! They have no other fiendish plans up their sleeves. It makes them quite helpless against their many natural enemies.

Possums are one of the least likely of all wildlife to carry the rabies virus. Of course, I'd never suggest picking up a wild possum. In fear, it may bite. But it won't jump on you. So please don't launch an attack on such a helpless creature. If one is in your space, be calm. Get someone to help you herd it into its space. It'll be as glad to go as you are to see it go.

I accidentally reached out and touched a wild possum once. But that's another story . . . for another day.

Once upon a time . . .

. . . near Hawkins, Texas in 1981, I was driving down the country road that ran in front of our place. On my way to get some supplies from the hardware store for my husband, Dee, I passed a dead opossum. It always saddens me to see an animal killed on the road. But it was obviously beyond help . . . so, I drove on by.

Over an hour later, returning from the store, I passed the same spot. There was now a dead possum and seven baby possums. All flattened. It was then I realized that possums have pouches.The babies had come out of the pouch in search of food, since their mother's supply had stopped. And someone had deliberately run over each and every one of them. Perhaps they thought it was kinder than letting them starve. Not me . . . I'd have picked up every last one and taken them home.

I pulled off the road and had a good cry. Then it struck me. If there were seven babies on the road, might there be more left in the pouch? I did something unimaginable to me at the time, but unavoidable, as far as I could figure. I put my hand into the dead mother's pouch and felt around. I discovered one baby still clinging to Mama's teet. It was about the size of a small bottle of White-Out. I wrapped my hand around it firmly and began tugging. The little fellow didn't want to let go.

I won the game of tug-o-war and out he popped. None too happy to see me.

I rushed him home. Knowing nothing about possums, I reasoned any kind of care would be better than nothing. I diluted and warmed some evaporated milk and filled an eye dropper. For starters I wet his mouth with the milk, because he wanted nothing to do with that hard glass eyedropper. (He was used to sucking on a long, almost string-like source of nourishment.) Licking his lips he partook of an entire eyedropper-full before he succumbed to exhaustion.

While he slept, nuzzled in the warm nest I'd built (a box of rags setting on top of a heating pad on the lowest setting), I frantically called everyone I knew. No one knew anything about nurturing a possum. Not even the vet. I was on my own.

[I've learned since, from the National Opposum Society (opossums.org), that they need a very specific diet. If you've found an orphaned possum, go there immediately. You can catch up to me later!]

We discussed names. Being a pastor, naturally Dee came up with something Scriptural. Opossum Paul - saved on the road to Hawkins. He became "Opie". (A side note: we later discovered Opie had a pouch, so "his" official name was changed to Opossum Paulette.)

Tune in  later for more of the continuing sage of Opossum Paulette. (I've gotta dig up some pics!)