Not In My Backyard . . .

Not in My Backyard . . . Or in My House!


It’s Southern California for pete’s sake! They are everywhere! Outside that is! But in the house?

I moved into the grand old Victorian in late March. Nestled on a small side street at the edge of old town, she was still beautiful if a bit run down. Graceful white columns supported a second floor balcony. Polished wood floored the spacious wrap around porches. Etched glass panels in the dark oak front door painted the entry-way with miniature rainbows when the morning sun blazed through.

Lofty ceilings soared eighteen feet to graceful curving corners above intricate crown molding that ran the perimeter of every room. The ceilings and walls were a little cracked here and there, but that only added personality. Warm wood paneled twelve inch thick walls that accommodated a set of massive sliding doors separating the living and dining rooms.

Well, it had been a dining room in the house’s hey day. Now it served as my bedroom. I rented the entire downstairs and basement of the gracious old lady. I was in heaven. It had been a dream of mine since childhood to live in a very old house. This one had passed her one hundredth birthday several years before.

Each night I snuggled into my pseudo-antique wrought iron bed in front of a bank of beveled glass windows that were taller than I am. I’d sigh and thank the good Lord for my fortune in finding this dream come true.

Then one night late in July I was yanked from a sound sleep by strange scrabbling noises directly above my head. My poor cats were terrified and angry and curious all at once. The noises went on for a couple of hours then subsided. I knew it couldn’t be rats or mice. I have cats to take care of that problem. The sound was far too large for rats, let alone mice. I was mystified. What was it?

Night after night, I was assailed by the noises. After a few weeks my cats became so accustomed to the nightly performances they often slept right through them. I wasn’t so lucky. There were times when fine grit would drift down from a couple of the larger cracks near the ceiling to tickle my nose into powerful sneezes. That always woke the cats! But never a clue at to who or what my nocturnal guests could be.

I asked the upstairs boarders and the neighbors but no one had any idea what the noises were. One boarder even surmised that I was being visited by the ghosts of the house’s previous occupants. Maybe so, but I really didn’t think ghosts could be so heavy footed. I didn’t like t hem, but I gradually grew to mostly ignore my nightly visitors.

One Saturday morning I was relaxing in my rocker lost in a world of dragons and magic when a strange squeaking caught my ear. I paused in my reading to listen. Suddenly my largest cat jumped from my lap and raced around the corner. A moment later his little brother followed. The squeak came again.

I decided to investigate.

Stepping quietly I slipped around the fireplace to the hutch and peeked beyond the wall. A pair of orange and white striped tails switched in unison behind two round kitty backsides. Two sent of noses and whiskers were wriggling with interest and curiosity. They were standing guard in fornt of my seven foot tall dresser and mirror unit, their interest was fixed on a mere inch and a half of twitching pink nose that protruded from under the dresser skirting. At first I gasped thinking they were facing off with an over-sized rat. Then I looked closer.

My “boys” were nose to nose with a baby possum!

I was stunned! How in the world did a possum get in the house? How in the world would I get it out? Where were momma and poppa possums?

Finally curiosity won out. My smallest kitty reached forward with an inquisitive paw. Baby possum wanted none of that and beat a hasty retreat. I scrambled to see where he went.

I caught the back end of the little grey body and a naked tail disappearing into the opening for my large sliding room divider door. In seconds I heard a very familiar scrabbling noise. The mystery of my nocturnal visitors was solved. Momma and Poppa Possum had taken up residence between the first and second floors in the spaces afforded by my lovely curving ceiling!

I suppose it was some comfort knowing that my lovely retreat wasn’t haunted, but now I was concerned about the sanitation of having a family of wild animals living in my walls. How did one remove a well established family of possums from one’s walls? Adult possums have some very nasty sharp little teeth! Then too, there was a complication; in Southern California possums are protected animals. It is illegal to kill them, so fumigation was out of the question, even if I could find someone small enough to crawl between floors to remove the remains.

I spent all of my free time for the next few days researching the possibilities of what could be done about my uninvited and unwanted house guests. No one was willing to come out and try to remove the possum family without also removing large portions of my ceiling. Nope! That was no option! One does not remove random sections of a one hundred year old ceiling and crown molding simply for possum removal.

I kept searching and finally found aid from a practical and nature-wise neighbor. Together we set out to divine and conquer our squatters.

“We’ll never trap Momma and Poppa,” he told me. “They are far too smart to fall for a simple containment trap, but if we can catch the babies and take them away the parents will leave the area.” I was skeptical but it was the best solution I’d come across so far. I was willing to at least give it a try.

He showed me the simple containment trap he made to catch the babies. It was humane and safe.

Step one was to limit access to the interior of the house. This involved a couple of weeks of watching the patterns of the beasts. He was retired and home more than I. After a few days observation he discovered the small break in the basement lattice work where the critters were squeezing into my walls. A few days longer and he had a feel for their daily schedule.

He waited one afternoon until he saw both Mamma and Pappa slip out on their daily munchie run. “Growing children do eat a lot whether they be human or possum,” he told me.

Once the parents were well away he carefully reduced the size of the possum escape hole so that only the babies, with much wiggling and squeezing, could slip though. He assured me that with their meal ticket securely barred from the house the babies would emerge once they got hungry enough. All we had to do was wait, and pray for good timing.

The home-made trap was baited with peanut butter and apples. A possum delicacy according to my friend.

The trap was set so that once the babies crept up and stepped in to grab their treats the board would slip off and they would be trapped in a large metal trash can. Then the Possum Rescue Society could have them to release in the wild, if they were old enough, or hand raise if they were yet too young to fend for themselves.

Within a week, three baby possums had been successfully “evicted.” My neighbor was sure we had them all. He hadn’t seen Mamma and Poppa hadn’t in four days. I no longer had a night time serenade. I was pleased.

A week later I came home from work to find my cats acting strangely. They were pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the entry way. They didn’t seem afraid but they were agitated all the same. I sat in my rocker and tried to coax them onto my lap. I’d pick one up and snuggle him and for a moment he’d purr, then jump down and pace again. This went on for about twenty minutes.

“What is up with you two?” I demanded. Of course all I got was an irritated look and an indignant “meow.”

“Alright, already!” I heaved my tired body out of my comfortable chair and trooped into the kitchen. “There isn’t anything in here!” I snapped. “Calm down you two.” They ignored me.

“Ahhh well,” I muttered. “Might as well get a sandwich.” I grabbed meat, cheese and bread out of the fridge, only to discover that I had finished off the last of the mayo a couple of nights earlier making macaroni salad. “No problem!” I told the boys. “I have a spare in the pantry.

I stepped over still pacing cats and headed for the pantry only to pull up short at the door way. Smack dab in the middle of the floor I was faced with a bitty pointed nose and two bead-like dark eyes. My heart paused at the unexpected reason for my kitties’ agitation. “Oh my, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you follow you family out?”

The little beast only stared and hissed at me. It was obvious that the cats wouldn’t let the baby escape back into the walls. There wasn’t any way out of the pantry. It was a stand off since the cats didn’t seem inclined to catch the little fellow, for which I was rather pleased. But what to do now? I had to get thelittle beastie out of my pantry.

Step one ~ catch him. Fortunately that turned out to be easy. I released a new pair of shoes from their box and dropped the bottom over the baby possum’s head. The hissing stopped. Thankfully! The boys lost their interest and wandered off to sample the day’s kitty dinner. I gently and slowly slipped the flattened lid under the box giving the baby time to step onto it. When he was secure I popped a couple of rubber bands around the box.

Step Two ~ what now?

“Well a bit in that box won’t hurt you,” I said as I carried the box onto the enclosed porch and set it on a small side table. “I’m going to eat.” I made up my dinner and sat down. It was Friday night. The Possum Rescue Society was closed, but their recorded message rattled off a list of emergency numbers. “It isn’t an emergency yet, but that baby can’t stay stuffed in a shoe box long.”

It took three tries before I caught and recorded all the numbers on the message. Then it took four more phone calls before I found an on-call staff member at home, and another two calls before I found one willing to help at such a short notice.

“Of course, we’ll help,” a kind voice at the other end of the line assured me. “Bring the baby on over.”

My heart dropped. I was silently praying they would come fetch the little guy. Southern California is large. Where was she? Would I have to drive forty or fifty miles? But then did I have a choice? Not really. I certainly couldn’t keep the baby possum in a shoe box all weekend.

“Okay,” I ventured. “Where are you located.?”

“Fullerton. Just off of Euclid and Commonwealth.”

“Perfect!” I cried with relief. “That’s just around the corner from where I work. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

We exchanged a few more pertinent facts before I hung the phone up.

“Okay, Egbert,” I told the little guy, “you’re off to a new home.”

I talked to the baby possum as I drove hoping to ease his fears. It must be awfully strange to be popped into a box and whisked away from the only home you’d ever known.

I found the lady’s street easily. It was lined with beautiful towering Chinese elm trees and quaint 20’s and 30’s bungalows. I loved the neighborhood on sight.

I had no idea what I’d find when I carried little Egbert up the walk. I knocked.

Almost instantly the door opened. The lady I’d spoken to came almost up to my chin but not quite. She had a round cheerful face surrounded by curly disheveled brown hair and wore and faded artist’s smock. She swept the door open and invited us in.

The entire living room was a play heaven for baby possums. Some were in a large enclosure climbing artificial trees or curled in “nests” of old blankets and wood shavings. Newer arrivals were housed individually in smaller cages lining the back wall in full view of the others. There were little possum munchie treats in each cage and several bowls of treats in the larger enclosure.

“This is wonderful,” I said.

“We make sure the little treasures are all healthy and ready to live on their own before we release them,” she explained. “We never put any of them down unless they are too ill to become self sufficient.” She reached out and scooped Egbert’s box from my hands and carefully lifted one corner. He hissed at her.

She laughed. “Just a little upset are we?” She handed the box to a younger girl standing in the kitchen doorway. “Take this little boy, and settle him in the new nursery. He needs time to get used to us.”

I sighed and wrote a check ~ larger that I had originally intended to the Possum Rescue Society. She thanked me but I thanked her even more!

My home was now completely mine once again. I was delighted and felt wonderful that I’m made sure the last of my uninvited guests would live a long happy life.