Here I relate something I'm not proud of. Tonight Boris caught another possum. He's killed two already and I figured he'd bagged a third when he ran up the back stairs with the thing. I managed to push him and Vinnie inside and then readied my arsenal of a broom and trash bag to dispose of the corpse. Only this time it blinked as I was pushing it back outside. So I nudged it out over the back steps to let it get over playing dead and get the hell away. I sprayed Windex everywhere by the back door and in the kitchen, put the dogs to bed, related the creepy story to Mrs The Fyd, then looked out the back door. The possum was clearly injured and was trying its best to struggle down the stairs. I know of no midnight possum rescue group so I got the pooper scooper and rake out, maneuvered the poor frightened and injured thing, and, with only dropping it once along the way, let it slide out over the backyard fence into the vacant lot next door. At least there the dogs won't pounce on it in the morning, and if it's going to die or live it will have some chance to meet its fate unmolested by our house animals.

I'm not happy about all this, but undoubtedly the possum is far unhappier.

I wonder if it's time to employ professionals to clear our yard of possum nests. I figure, however, that they actually live next door because our yard doesn't seem to have the kind of cover they would need to survive.