Monday, July 25, 2011
What happened was we lost 5 pounds walking out the door, only to be followed with, “I forgot the shed key can you bring it?” The response, “where is the weed eater gas can?” Needless to say the first half-hour was spent laughing at our age or at least making fun of it.
I went to my assigned weed eating machine and tired my best to make friends; Ms. Twister went for the more docile pony ride and started the riding lawn mower.
The befriending was not going well, in fact my tactic had gone hissy-fit when I heard something; the lawn mower was not running. It broke my hissy-fit concentration and I looked to see Ms. Twister standing in the driveway.
”What’s wrong?” I knew from her face something upsetting was about to spew. “Do baby possums have fur when they are born? Well anyway, there is a dead possum down by the fence; you have to go get it.” “Why am I in charge of backyard-kill?”
I gathered my leather gloves, the dog pooper scooper and headed down the hill. No way, am I slinging some dead varmint with bare hands. Halfway down I yelled, “Exactly where is it?” I got the finger from Christmas past pointing to the spot.
As I kicked around the grass looking for a possum, I found a strange flat furry thing. “Hum, that is not a possum, what is it?” I do not mind dead animals so with gloves on. I picked it up.
Just as the strange dead creature cleared the grass my light bulb went off. With the varmint in hand I headed back. I looked, and could see the fear and dread in Ms. Twister’s eyes, she cannot handle dead animals.
I held the creature out to the front and proceeded toward her. I was almost there too but she screamed first, “You are not bringing that up here are you?” To which I replied, “Do you remember what I asked you last night?” That changed her look to fearfully, confused.
Top of the hill and Ms. Twister backing up I took pity. Just as she was about to freak I squeezed my hand and then I cried. When I squeezed my hand the strange little creature squeaked and I cried laughing.
You see, I had just asked Ms. Twister the night before if she had seen the other stuffed dog toy. So when is a possum not a possum? When Ms. Twister says it is a possum. With certainty the only animal Ms. Twister can identify is her own dog, who probably is the one playing the possum joke on her.
That was my Saturday and this is Monday. I’m still working my tail off for this week. I am also doing my best trying to visit everyone at least once during the week. Please if I miss you let me know, my reader is so loaded with un-read it is freaking out.
May your week be full of squeaky possums.