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!)