The Opossum Story: Part One

Make sure to read the preamble before continuing.

Two years ago this August, Hubby and I moved into our house, an older home but not a fixer-upper. We made a "somehow-this-will-come-back-to-bite-us" decision and lazily tossed all of our empty boxes, newspapers and bubble wrap in the family room, which we call "The Orange Room."

It is very orange.

Like all good Hoosiers that Sunday night, we were watching an Indianapolis Colts preseason game. At one point, I thought I hear a sound in the kitchen, like a cabinet door opening and shutting. Hubby investigated but found nothing.

I am a kinda jumpy person (some might be snickering at "kinda") so I just chalked the noise up to the old house settling, exaggerated by my vivid imagination.

A little later, while I was in the bathroom (thank goodness), Hubby called out:

H: Are you still in the bathroom?
K: Yeah, why?
H: Is the door closed?
K: Yeah, why?
H: Just keep it closed.
K: OK, why?
H: (long pause) I just saw a opossum in our dining room.

I might have screamed, popped a heart valve or passed out completely; I'm not really sure. But I do remember stuffing towels around the bathroom door and spending the next 60 minutes standing on the edge of our tub, holding onto the shower curtain rod.

Yup, I left my man to deal with the creature on his own because a moment like this is Reason #1189 on the list, Why Get Married: Hubs can deal with what I don't want to deal with.

But I don't think he wanted my help since it would consist of the lifeless, empty shell of Katie staring at her worst fear.

The opossum, whom Hubby affectionately nicknamed "Matilda" and I nicknamed "Creature of My Nightmares," sped off towards The Orange Room. Hubby did his best to get Matilda out of the house but she scurried from one ginormous pile of boxes and paper to another.

We definitely learned one thing that night: opossums really do play dead. It's not a myth. Once they see a human, they flop on their disgusting bellies and refuse to move, even if prodded with a broomstick.

So, Matilda played dead on and off for three hours. After the first hour, Hubby convinced me to come out of my foxhole to help him.

Y'all, that's when you know you love someone, when you're willing to come out of your safe haven (or step off the tub ledge) to face your worst nightmare.

Hubby's soothing chants of "She won't hurt you; she's more scared of you than you are of her" and our pretty fine teamwork finally worked. We pushed Matilda out the back door and locked it.

He checked the rest of the house and basement while I tried to put on a courageous face, repress the image of the nasty little pink tail and think of how much I had to clean (floors, walls, ceilings...because you just never know).

Miraculously, I was able to sleep in our house that night. This was partly due to my pride issues and wanting to be a brave wife who can face her worst fear and come out stronger. (I already forgot about the first hour perched on the tub.)

However, I may or may not have stuffed the bedroom door with towels and asked Hubby to check the oven drawer (see #2 if this doesn't make sense). While I might be brave enough to sleep there, I'm no fool.

But oh yes, there is a part two.