Friday, February 28, 2014
Round two goes to the possum!
It was cold this morning in my possum blind. Well, it wasn't really a blind...I just hid behind a tree while my breath steamed in front of me and Momma Kitty sat at my feet. B-Man and 'Stache were preening in the sunshine, White Kitty and Callie Cat were safely up in the woods catching some early morning rays, and I had an absolutely immaculate field of vision. Someone across the river had a wood fire going so an oaky aroma mingled nicely with the crisp tang of the morning air. From the next farm, a dog barked four times and then quieted.
Guess what? No possum. Not a sign of him, not a sound of him, not a scent of him, although I wouldn't have a clue what he smells like. So it was me, Mamma Kitty, and my trusty .22 lever action, aka "critter gun." The cold was relentless, so I finally had to prop the gun against the tree and bury my hands in my pockets to relieve the numbness.
Look. Let me set the record straight. I don't really want to kill that creature. As ugly and as menacing as he is, as I've said before, he was born into his fate. He gets hungry just like my cats do. Just like I do. Just like you do. And he definitely knows I'm around because he's had more than one bullet whiz past his pointy little head. So he's being ultra cautious. I've observed him peeking around corners and glancing over his fat possum shoulder as he waddles along.
But the fact of the matter remains: he's a threat.
Though I may be exaggerating that a little because the last time I saw him he was chowing down in the big barn with all four of those cats in attendance, with their attitudes varying between mild curiosity and bored acceptance. It appears that they may not challenge him and he may not challenge them. For all I know, they may be sharing tree climbing tips and the cats may be ratting me out for what an easy touch I am.
Of course, that kind of thinking makes it even more difficult. Plus the thought that once I've dispatched him to the Land of Smithereens, there are most certainly more to follow. And just how many dead and mangled possums does it take before a fellow gives in to marsupial bloodlust? At what point do I set straight up in bed in the middle of the night due to a sudden and acute craving to blast a possum?
So let's just say that today I'm conflicted. My head may be clearer tomorrow and the possibilities range from permanent amnesty to inviting more shooters over to help seal the deal. Where will my head be when the sun rises on tomorrow?
I don't know. I really don't.