A fat, surly possum is a very crafty adversary
Coda
Greg Bean

I was going to write about politicians again this week, and how sick I've gotten of negative campaign advertising.

But to tell you the truth, I'm at my wit's end and have finally decided to ask for assistance with an unrelated problem I simply can't solve. At this point, I'm so desperate I'll do nearly anything for some good advice, and maybe one of my readers can help.

As background, I'll tell you that I grew up in Wyoming, a state where it's common for humans to have close encounters with wild animals.

Once at our summer cabin, I looked up from the kitchen table and saw a bear looking at me through the front window. The bruin had been coming around all summer, looking for things to eat, and had grown uncommonly fond of the tar paper on the pump house. I scared him off the porch by banging a frying pan in time to Johnny Cash's "Jackson," which was on the 8-track at the time. He ran for tall timber, but he came back that night for another bite of tar paper, and didn't quit coming until he'd eaten it all and the pump house was as bald as Michael Jordan's head.

Over the years, I had lots of encounters with bears, snakes and other critters. I had to chase a bull elk out of my parking space one morning, and pronghorn out of my flower bed. We got so frustrated trying to keep the deer out of the sweet corn, my grandpa gave me the job of going out to the field every morning and shooting his old 10-gauge shotgun in the air to scare the moochers away before they ate our dinner.

Skunks and bull snakes in the chicken coop were common visitors, and we would have left them alone if they hadn't come to eat the chickens and eggs. One morning, I killed a skunk in the henhouse just minutes before I was scheduled to teach an 8 a.m. English class at the college, and the varmint sprayed me point blank before entering skunk heaven. That morning, a few minutes after class started, I noticed most of my students were crying. When I asked one young woman what the tears were for, she looked up sheepishly and said, "Mr. Bean, it's because you stink."

No matter what anybody says about bathing in tomato juice, there's not much you can do about skunk squeezins once you've been sprayed. You just have to live with it until it wears itself out.

I found a rattlesnake once in the bed of my pickup, and at least twice that I can remember, mountain lions showed up at one of the local grade schools.

One fall, we were tormented by a gang of delinquent raccoons who came around every night to wreak havoc. One of them stole a pair of my favorite sunglasses and, last I saw him, he was sitting on the deck, wearing them upside down. Another morning, I came out the front door to find a raccoon sitting in the driver's seat of my Jeep, little hands on the wheel at ten and two. I ran him off with a blast from the garden hose. Others ran off when we barked like dogs.

I've known people who had mule deer in their kitchens, mountain lions in their bedrooms and moose on the patio. I've had bats in my living room, horned toads in my boots and a convention of black widow spiders in my pantry. Once, I'm pretty sure Bigfoot himself was lurking around my campsite on the Gros Ventre, although I couldn't have proved it. The creature came in the middle of the night, made a mighty racket and stole a rucksack filled with canned beans and jerky. I'm pretty sure I saw the thief running away on two legs, but I'd have to admit it might have been a very agile grizzly or a dancing bison.

Sadly, none of those experiences prepared me for the possum that's been marauding the Bean homestead all summer.

They don't have possums where I grew up, at least none I ever crossed paths with. There were badgers, lynx, coyotes, prairie dogs and lots of those gray jays called camp robbers.

But no possums. And because of that, I know nothing about them, or their habits. I know nothing about how a person in New Jersey possum-proofs their property, and I have no way of knowing how to get rid of the one that's taken up residence in my garage.

I first realized something was up in July, when I noticed a lot of what we woodsmen refer to as scat on the garage floor, and that every time I put garbage bags in the cans we keep out there, something tore the bags open and tossed all the trash on the floor. Then, something dug a big hole under the foundation and the garage began flooding. We filled in the hole, but then something started hoarding newspaper, shredding it and making BIG nests in corners.

We suspected giant squirrels, or 'roid-raging chipmunks, but we didn't suspect possums until one morning my wife saw one steal a ripe tomato from the garden and disappear into a new hole near the foundation with the booty in his ugly mouth.

I looked from floor to ceiling, but couldn't find him. I found lots of stolen tomatoes and other stuff from the garden and the trash, lots of nesting material and plenty of scat. But no possum.

Since then, even though I've never laid eyes on him myself, I've been trying to drive him out. I've left the lights on and the door open. I've put chili powder on the floor to make him sneeze. The kids play loud music in the driveway and we keep filling in his darned holes - but he just won't go away. Yesterday, he was reportedly sighted near the garage with half a pumpkin. It was nearly as big as he is, and he's rumored to have looked very happy.

I want him gone. I'd put the dog out there, but she's afraid of skunks and there's no reason to think she'd have more courage against a surly possum that's nearly as fat as she is. I'd wait for him after dark with the shotgun, but gunfire might make the neighbors nervous.

So I'm open to suggestion. If anybody can help me get rid of this possum, forever, I wish they'd write me a note and tell me how to do it. I promise to make it worthwhile. I hear possum stew is mighty savory, and I'd be more than happy to share.

Gregory Bean is executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers.