Who in the name of Sam Hill am I supposed to call if I find a possum in the basement???
I wish I were kidding about this - but, sadly, no.
Riding the new found wave of perkiness, I not only sorted the laundry (a Herculean chore to be sure!) but even went down in the basement and got the laundry party started.
All was well and good until I went down to check on the status of the dryer...
I open the door to the basement, get halfway down the stairs, and BLAM! there it was at the bottom of the steps.
Needless to say, I screamed like the big goosey girl that I am, and broke all landspeed records hightailing it back up the steps.
I then slammed the door shut ('cause I'm sure that possums can eat through wood, you know!) and heaved a sigh of relief.
Until I realized that I probably had to deal with it.
So back down the stairs I go. Long story longer - it's totally a possum.* And honestly, it's a little baby one. If I saw him out somewhere, I'd totally think he's cute. But as it is? In *my* basement? Not so much. He's wedged up under the crawlspace of the porch, under the house.
And you know what - I'm not up to dealing with it tonight. I'm totally pulling a Scarlett on this one: Tomorrow is another day....
('Cause the only thing I'm doing tonight is making a date with the cute Toms: Tommy Gavin and Tom Colicchio.** Hee!)
So I'm going to board up the kitty door to the basement, and I'm keeping the Things up here with me, and we'll just let LilMr.PossumBaby have the basement tonight.
But, tell me all you wiser-than-me-Atlanta folk - what do I do tomorrow????
Updated to add: Seems like in theory that the Things might be able to help. But ThingOne isn't right in the head, and ThingTwo is scared of everything. So I'm probably in the market for a PlanB.
This is actually the second time that a possum's gotten in the basement - but the first time was years ago... The Pre-Schecky era. And that situation was easily rectified by Hobbes, Best Cat There Ever Was. I'm not quite sure how Hobbes killed that possum, but he did. Bubba says that the poor possum probably saw all 21 pounds of Hobbes waddling at him and died of fright. Either that, or Hobbes sat on it and crushed the breath out of it. I'm not dignifying either of speculations with a reply. All I know is that Hobbes, Best Cat There Ever Was, handled it...
And does anyone besides me think that it's a wee bit odd, that although I'm a little old hillbilly girl through and through, I never *once* had possum problems 'til I moved to the big city? There's irony in there somewhere, for those of you what enjoy that kind of thing...
*and Thank God for that. I mean, Remy was tres cute in Ratatouille and all. Doesn't mean I want him in the house. Unless he wanted to take over cooking duties. I need a break from the all-MoonPie, all-the-time diet...
(And did you see what I did there? I threw in some gratutitous French. 'Cause the rats in Ratatouille are all from Paris!)
**I talk the big talk. Trust me, I'll be asleep 15 minutes into the first show! Thank goodness for TiVo...