Thursday, March 20, 2008


So, we have all read about my wonderful relationship with Animal Control here in Williamson County. Well, the saga continues ....

Yesterday, I opened my front door to go check my mail and pick up my neighbor's mail (they're on vacation). When I opened the door, a large, beefy boxer (the animal, not the athlete) was sitting on my front porch looking at me. I didn't scream (after all, it wasn't a possum *grin*), but I did catch my breath and slam the door shut again. An hour later, the boxer was still, for some unknown reason, sitting on my front porch. So, call #2 this week to Animal Control.

Me: "A boxer has been sitting on my front porch for the past hour."

Animal Control: "Is he vicious?"

Me: "Maybe. I'm not about to go find out."

Animal Control: "Does he have a collar on?"

Me: "No." (Thinking, "But even if he did, I'm not going to try to go read it!")

So, they got my address and said they would dispatch someone. I thanked them, but I was thinking, "You will send out a truck for a possibly vicious dog, but not for a definitely-vicious-and-maybe-even-rabid possum in my trash can?"

After another half hour, Animal Control still had not shown up, and Big Daddy had begun tossing quesadillas out the front door for the boxer to eat. He eventually wandered away, and Animal Control showed up on my front porch with a leash 10 minutes later.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


So, my house has been in more disarray than the usual toddler-filled home because we're busy packing. Yesterday, I filled a trashbag with everything left over from packing up the bonus room, and went out back to throw the bag into our garbage can. As I released the bag, I thought I spotted fur in the bottom of the garbage can. So, I decided to take a closer look. I walked over to the garbage can, looked in, screamed, then soiled myself, because I had come face to face with the beady eyes and open mouth of an enormous, angry looking possum. I ran into the house, locked the deadbolt (just in case the possum knew how to work a doorknob), and told a wide-eyed Bean, "It's okay. An animal just surprised Mommy, that's all."

After changing my clothes (refer to the aforementioned soiling of myself), I called up Animal Control. The conversation went like this:

"Animal Control. How can we help you?"

"There's a possum in my trash can."

"So, tip the trash can over," said the Animal Control agent in a voice that suggested that I am a moron.

"Are you kidding me? What if it attacks me?!"

Pause. "Ma'am, it's not going to attack you."

"Seriously, it is looking pretty fierce."

"That's because it is scared and trapped. Just tip the trash can over, walk away, and it will leave." Again, spoken like I am a moron.

"Okay, thanks," I said, and hung up.

Now, there was NO WAY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH that I was going to go near that trash can, so I leaned out of my back door with a broom, and tried to push the can over. The possum's weight, however, made this trickier than I thought it would be. It was like trying to overturn a Weeble Wobble, and hissing noises kept coming from the can every time it almost fell, and then rocked back into an upright position. This of course, had me screaming again. When the can finally DID fall on it's side, I panicked, picturing a foamy-mouthed possum flying toward me like a missile. So, I tried to quickly pull the broom inside the house so I could shut and deadbolt the door again. But, the panic made it impossible for me to pull the broomstick through the railing of our deck. I finally left the broom out there and slammed the door shut.

Would you know that the stupid possum did not leave that trash can until Big Daddy came home at 7:30 p.m., picked up the trash can, and shook the possum out while I watched from the window (screaming, of course).

Needless to say, I will no longer be taking our garbage out. That is now solely Burnie's job.

Saturday, March 15, 2008


We'll be moving in two weeks. So, the mad packing has begun. Of course, after 17 boxes, the house barely has a dent in it. How did we accumulate so much in just four years living here?

Maybe when we move, we'll find that remote that disappeared sometime after Bean was born ...