because the vowel is wasted, that's why

Critters are invading. Well, one critter.

We have had a resident possum (yes, I know it is supposed to be spelled with an "o" in the front, but I refuse on the principle that it is an utter waste of a vowel) that has become a bit of a seasonal squatter in our attic and backyard. We are not sure how he is getting around. When we hear him in the attic during the winter months, we play detective. We have tried to figure out his traffic pattern and access entry point. We have plugged all potential areas of access into the attic, roof, and eaves that we could find. Somehow, despite our efforts, this little creature continues to figure out how to get in an out at will. Apparently there is an indoor and outdoor possum network we were formerly blissfully unaware of.

With a small steel-cage trap thingy borrowed from my father-in-law, who tells us it has been used successfully on everything from rats to raccoons (this is the part where my mind goes into voluntary denial), Copper has hoped to catch the possum and relocate him to a more generally welcoming location. This endeavor has proven unfruitful, literally. Each morning, the pieces of peanut butter laden fruit in the trap have been relocated. The possum is still located here.

This little critter has awakened me at 2:30 a.m. three nights of the last two weeks. Whereupon, I awaken Copper and together, armed with flashlights and clad in pajamas and socks, we descend upon the backyard garden. Where we inevitably find the possum (as they are not the stealthiest creatures), shine lights on it and try to direct it into the trap. We reason, in our VERY lucid 2:30 a.m. mental capacities, that we can somehow "land" this possum in its cage with our lights like it is a 747. Typically, our efforts manage little more than to frighten the little thing, who tries to escape by retreating to the farthest reaches of our agapanthas, then tries to climb the locust tree before just giving up, playing possum, and hoping we go away.

Which we do. It's 2:30 a.m. It's cold outside. It is flashlights and socks vs. marsupial with rumored sharp teeth. We go away.

The possum has us pretty much figured out. We eat a lot of corn on the cob and salmon, and the garbage gets picked up on Wednesday morning. Which means that Tuesday nights are possum-on-the-prowl nights. With Copper out of town until Friday, I expected the possum to visit again last night and was prepared to meet him alone. I waited up till after three in the morning. I set the trash out as usual. I put fresh batteries on our flashlight, set my shoes by the door, and slathered peanut butter on the apples in the trap. I kept going to the door and flicking on the outdoor lights really fast, hoping to catch Mr. Critter in the noisy act of trying to claw into our spa. Hoping to scare him into the trap by sheer terror of the light from a 60 watt outdoor bulb. Hoping I had not stayed up in vain. Hoping for another possum sighting. Hoping the trap would actually be effective. Hoping I'd get to do my little victory dance.

Alas, our friendly neighborhood possum let me down. And I am both tired and disappointed. I am not sure which is worse: being wakened by a possum in the middle of the night, or NOT being visited by a possum after waiting up until the middle of the night.

I told Copper tonight that instead of peanut butter, we may as well lay out a towel, some sunscreen, and more corn on the cob. Because all this little thing seems to want to do is slip into the spa, have a snack, and move right in.

Varmint.