As you might have guessed, I didn’t stop feeding my cats. I have three, which is probably two cats too many. The first, Micros, I brought home from the pound as a source of unconditional love and affection without slobber or too much responsability. She is performing admirably. The second, 28, I rescued from the basement of the building I was organizing at the corner of 28th and Maple. The veterinary assistant sniffed and would not believe that 28 was his name, but after I had forced her at knife point to write it down on the form she told me it wasn’t a very good name. Like I care. The third cat, Frida, is the punk anarchist from work who refused all instruction, so she was fired (fucking establishment) and someone had to take her. She is twice the size of my other cats, eats about four times as much, and has long white hair which clings to my person throughout the day. I hope to shave her this weekend in an attempt to find out how big she is without fur, create a conversation starter at cocktail parties, and improve my professional appearance. She does not run, she galoomphs, and i once saw her galoomph 50 feet across the office at breakneck speed only to run bang on into a table leg. It’s a special kind of cat can do that.

So you’d think a small opossum would be no trouble, wouldn’t you? Three cats led by a furry little superhero…one rodent, not good odds those. Unfortunately my cats are a group of lazy, good for nothing, lilly livered cowards who busied themselves in calmly pretending that the opossum did not exist, even when it was clearly scrabbling against the bedroom window, somehow trapped INSIDE my room between the glass and the blinds. Had it been a poor defenseless moth now, that would have been another story. Being that it was 3:37 am, i could think of nothing more effective than opening the window and poking the rodent a couple of times. No effect. I took another picture which at the moment is marooned on my work computer but it should be up soon. I poked the rodent again. I then tottered back to bed to ruminate over the strange and stubborn character of your garden variety opossum, utterly unknown to me before now. Some time later i heard a soft thump as he gently fell out the window, and I knew the battle was won for moment, but I also knew he would be back. Oh yes. He would be back.

As an arch-nemesis the opossum deserves a name, but I haven’t yet hit on one suitable, let me know if you all think of one. But rest assured that a plastic trash bin and a broom are now at the ready by the bed, and I shall carry the day…

Here’s the picture, please notice his shifty eyes and disdainful smile…