After my brother moved to be near his Significant Other, he took the two outside dogs (Missy and Bandit) with him.  Once the dogs were gone, apparently the local Possum Population decided it was Easy Pickin's time.

Now, I did not leave cat food or garbage out where animals could get at it.  The cats were fed only during the day, then if there was anything left over we brought it in for the night.  I did leave water out for the cats at all times, though, so maybe that's what drew them.

A matter of days after the dogs had gone, Mocha (one of the cats we rescued) dissappeared.  About that same time, our remaining dog, Rusty, would become agitated and upset at odd times.  Eventually we figured out why - she could smell possums outside.

My first run in with one took me by surprise.  The thing was BIG, a lot bigger than I thought they normally got.  And it was very aggressive.  It was one nasty customer, and wouldn't run except under extreme duress.  Had no qualms about coming right back, either.  Eventually we figured out there were at least two of them.  The appearance of the possums coinciding with the disappearance of one of the cats was too much of  a coincidence, and the fact that at least one of these possums was not a faint-and-play-dead normal sort of  possum but rather some kind of Mutant Samurai Possum decided their fates.

I declared a Possum Jihad.

It hasn't been easy, since neither myself nor my son are exactly a dab hand with a gun.  Oh, I borrowed a shotgun, alright, but my dinky little short arms just don't reach.  I'll need a youth-sized shotgun and a youth-sized .22 eventually, but my single experience with the shotgun have proven to me that I have no business with a gun in my hands until I learn to aim it.  I didn't hit anything I shouldn't have, nor was I ever in any danger of doing so - I was just so overly-careful about where I was aiming that I wasn't even getting close to hitting the possum, either.  Well, I think I hit it once - out of 4 times with a .12 guage.  And I only winged it then.  The shot was going into the ground because I was being too lily-livered about shooting the pestilent thing.  We ended up - and I warned you not too read this if you're the least bit weak-stomached, not just once but several times, THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE . . . End of Possum Woes
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We ended up having to beat it to death with a shovel.  I had winged the thing and it had to be put down.  If nothing else, the incident has proved to me that I must get some shooting lessons before taking a gun in my hands again.  While I was never in any danger of shooting what I oughtn't, the object of my hunt was also in little or no danger of being targeted.  A quick, clean shot is a heck of a lot easier on all concerned than having to bludgeon the beasties to death.

Having disposed of one of the nasty little beasties, shortly thereafter I opened the door to walk Rusty, and lo and behold - there were TWO MORE of them.  Just sitting there drinking the cat water as easy as you please.  Took off running as soon as Rusty was through the door.  So as soon as I can find a .22 my size and get some shooting lesons, I'll be baiting and shooting the remaining possums.  Since the death of the first and meanest of the lot, Bear has also dissappeared.  And Squeakums has shown up bitten and scarred since then.  I suspect the possums, as the cats stay near the trailer all the time, and are adept at tree climbing.  Coyotes don't come near the trailer, haven't come close for months now, and can't climb trees.  But possums can . . .