Bring out yer dead

Last night while leaving the bottles and cans for the recycling pick-up, I saw something I couldn't quite identify near the side of the road (where the curb would be if we had a curb). It was dark and late, and I assumed it was an old newspaper that had collected in the gutter. I was feeling lazy and so decided to leave it until the morning.

On Fridays, Vicki and Jane leave at around six in the morning. I am almost always awake and usually watch them and wave from the window. This morning, after Vicki buckled Jane into her car seat, she started to walk around the back of the van toward her side but suddenly cried out and jumped straight into the air.

Apparently last night's "newspaper" was actually a dead possum.

Did I mention it was dark when I took out the recycling?

Anyway, Samson and I --- despite our best efforts --- never get out of the house before 8:15, so by the time we were leaving, there it was in all its inanimate glory. I casually mentioned, as we headed to the car, that there was a dead animal, and Samson's two reactions were: "Oh, is that a possum? He's cute" and "Do possums have funerals?" I think he's ready for Outward Bound.

[Sidenote: His school is across the street from a Catholic church, where, on Monday, the funeral for a firefighter was held --- the appearance of a dozen firetrucks and a team of bagpipers did not go unnoticed, and I figured there was no harm in explaining what it was that was happening. Lots of talk since then about funerals. So it goes.]

We walked carefully to the car, not getting too close [he might not have been dead, right? isn't that why they call it "playing possum?"] and got into the car and headed to school.

By the time I arrived home tonight it was clear that either this possum was going for some kind of world record for "playing" or was, indeed, dead. Of course, tonight was the last soccer game of the season, so my dead animal removal duties would have to wait until after the Light Green team's final game, pizza party, and trophy ceremony [more on this later].

I enlisted Vicki's help this time with the removal duties. I say "this time" because last year (maybe in December?) I had to do something similar. A very large neighborhood cat hat been hit by a car and was lying, quite dead, in the middle of our busy two-lane street. Right on the double yellow lines.

I did not want Samson to come out in the morning for school and see the thing splattered all over the road, so I went out [I think Vicki was at a holiday party] and stood in the middle of the road with a shovel, a flashlight, and a big black lawn and leaf bag. I remember it was cold and that I was wearing Bean boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, and a big down vest. It was raining slightly, and I imagine I must have looked like a cross between Pet Sematery and a J. Crew shoot gone horribly wrong.

On that occasion it took me the better part of a half-hour (with the kids upstairs sleeping and a monitor in my vest pocket in case they woke) to get the thing into a bag. Not to mention the fact that the cat was easily 18 lbs and kept sliding off the shovel.

I know: gross, but you know what? You're just reading about it; I actually felt the slow slide of inert tissue down the metal spade and looked into those dead, staring eyes. I digress.

This time, as I said, I enlisted Vicki's help, and it was actually pretty easy. One scoop and into the bag, although the long tail had already rigormortized a bit. Not really a big deal. Not something I want to do again tomorrow, but I can report with one hundred percent certainty that this thing was not, in fact, playing possum.

And so, with my varmint duties complete, I am going to bed. Let's hope the raccoons go quietly about their business tonight.