The Battlestar Flealactica

You may have heard about my little flea problem.

The whole "killing 13 fleas by hand after one three minute potty session in the bushes" incident isn't typical, but it is indicative of the scope of the problem.

I have killed many, many fleas.
I will kill many more.
I will enjoy killing...

Wait.

I've already said that.

Anyway.

A major battle in my personal campaign of flea genocide has been just been won.

Behold! The Mangey Possum!



"I have you now!" - Darth Vader, A Long Time Ago

I've long suspected some kind of Mobile Bloodsucker Mothership must be hiding somewhere in my yard. I don't have any outside animals, and although the odd flea can fall off a passing squirrel, my grade-B sci-fi level of infestation is only possible with full-time, on-site maintence. The neighbors cats love my yard, and they each have their own specific Flea-Delivery Zones, but they their owners don't seem to be the type to leave their pets untreated. Since my Mom's dearly departed Cowboy killed two baby possums, deep in my blood-deprived fever dreams I've seem shadows of something huge lurking Somewhere Behind the Shed.

It was time to Take Action.

I borrowed a no-kill trap from a friend of my Dad, set it out with some leftover pork bones, and SCORED BIG TIME!

*Cha-ching!*

This was a BIG FUCKING POSSUM.

While you can get some sense of it's width from the picture, it's body without the tail was at least 20 inches long. It's easily the biggest possum I've ever seen. I resisted the urge to take it to fire practice, which was a mistake as one attendee is sufficiently creeped out by any association with rodent-like creatures that she recently had a frozen baby mouse destined for the tummy of her son's python wrapped in two layers of bag and box, then CARRIED OUT TO THE TRUNK OF THE CAR by the pet store attendent.

Clearly the world would be a better place if we'd been able to get her up-close (and breathlessly unprepared) opinion on the size and quality of my hairy, slather-jawed, scaley-tailed catch.

I might have even been able to pick the lock on her car.

I guess it's water over the dam, now.

Sigh.

At least this time I had enough forewarning to use a metal trap instead of my Motorola jacket to capture the possum and put it in my car. And this time I put it in the TRUNK. In case you hadn't discovered this on your own Bleeding-Heart-Liberal Highway-Overpass-During-Rush-Hour-Possum-Rescue-Adventures, possums void their bowels when they play dead to enhance their "gee, I'm dead and rotting and therefore not dinner" behaviour. It's very convincing.

There will be other jackets.

The trap is outside again, this time with some odiferous sardines generously provided by my father. I'm a little sceptical that one animal could possibly produce the copious minefield of Super-Turds right outside my bedroom window, so perhaps I'll have a chance to take the next one to fire practice tomorrow at Cafe Mundi.

I just hope it's as big as the last one. :)