Uncle Oscar and the Possums

By: Angela Gillaspie Copyright © September 2000

My Uncle Oscar is a widower with a heart for adventure. In his younger days, he bravely hunted squirrel, dove, deer, and even possum. Living in the country has taught him respect for the woods and the critters that live within them.

Nowadays, the arthritis in his hands prohibits him from any heavy work, so Uncle Oscar has retired and spends his days gardening and gossipin' down at the country restaurant. With this said, I'd like to share a little encounter that my dear old uncle had with some of his wildlife neighbors.

One night while Uncle Oscar was watching the local news, some movement caught his eye. From the darkened kitchen a small plump possum meandered across the living room floor and headed for the bedroom, just as if it owned the place and had an important task to finish. Clutching his chest, Oscar was afraid to breathe because the contents of his colon suddenly turned into liquid and any movement might make a mess on his recliner. With wide-eyes, he stared at the possum ambling by.

Finally, Uncle Oscar regained his composure and slowly slid from his recliner, went to the kitchen and retrieved a broom. He quietly stalked the intruder who was sniffing some dirty laundry next to the closet.

Oscar looked like a fierce samurai farmer as he squatted in his overalls, waved the broom over his head, and screamed, "Huh-yah!" The possum looked up and fell over in a dead faint. Confused, Oscar retreated, opened the door, and then crept back to poke the motionless critter with his broom. The possum then awoke and skittered out of the door into the humid night.

Uncle Oscar sleeps heavy and snores louder than a wheezing gorilla with a sinus infection. So later that night, the possum heard Oscar's snorting and sawing and decided to investigate Uncle Oscar's humble living space. Poor Oscar wasn't invited to the possum party in his kitchen.

The next morning, Uncle Oscar and his rumbling stomach walked into the kitchen for a cup of instant coffee and some honey toast. Small things crunched under his bare feet, and looking down, he saw his oatmeal, Cheerios, sugar, and various other dry goods spilled on the floor.

His face flushed with anger as he grabbed his broom and started cleaning up the mess. Reaching for the dustpan in the utility room, he noticed a hole near the small drain, and nearby was a three-inch hole next to the dryer vent. Either of these holes could've been where the varmint got in.

"So thar's whar ya got in, ya dayyum punk!" He grunted as he fingered one of the openings.

When he cleaned the food from the floor, his arthritic fingers were howling. Angry and in pain, he formulated a plan of attack. He would visit his buddy Durby for some raccoon traps. Grinning perversely, yes, setting traps will be exactly what will work.

That night, Uncle Oscar pushed a weenie from its plastic enclosure, and threw it in the end of the trap. As he rigged the spring to snap shut behind the possum, he hummed, "Cuz wily Oscar has a way, you P-O-S-S-U-M yeah!" ... in his clever rendition of the Oscar Mayer® bologna song.

He couldn't decide whether to put the trap in the kitchen or in the utility room, so he placed it in between (fixing the holes and placing the trap outside the trailer didn't occur to him -- yet).

Early the next morning, a scratching noise woke him. He stumbled into the living room and found a mama possum with a pouch full of babies glaring up at him from the trap. He pulled on his work gloves and tried to decide what to do. Being in a kind sort of mood, he carried the trap outside, opened the door and shooed the mama possum out.

"Don't come back now!" he hollered after her (not too loud because he didn't want her to faint), and she scampered away toward the woods.

The next few days yielded similar events. By the end of the week, he had caught three young possums and was tiring of the capture and release game - it was cutting into his breakfast time. Uncle Oscar decided to put a trap outside next to the vent and hopefully catch the invaders before they got inside to gnaw on his Cheerios. He also set another trap inside in the kitchen - just in case.

There wasn't a possum in his trap in the kitchen, so that next morning he took his time and savored his coffee, honey toast, and eggs. As he was heading out for his daily routine, he saw that he had trapped something in the outside trap. A small, dark, and furry something.

He caught a skunk! Now, there's a whole 'nuther story about Uncle Oscar and the skunks, so I don't want to take up your time repeating it here. To make a stinky story short, ol' Oscar finally got rid of the skunks (and a few friends too) and he is now skunk-free and smelling like a possum.

Anyway, after a while, Oscar decided that this entire possum trapping business was more trouble that it was worth. The heat has been horrible this summer and Uncle Oscar's arthritis has been flaring up really bad, so he decided that since he can't beat the possums, he might as well join them. Last week when I spoke with him, he shrugged and said "Them possums don't really eat too much -- sometimes they help me by getting' the crumbs offa the floors."

I imagine he does get lonely there in his trailer deep in the woods. Patching up those holes might just break his heart.

Stay tuned for more SouthernAngel's redneck articles!