Paul's Take of the 'Possum Kill'n

Don't let Carolyn fool you.  She's a cold blooded, crazed killer.

First of all, when we got home I went right inside with Rhiannon and tucked her in bed and she went to the barn to close up the chickens.  Then I hear her wailing like a banshee for me to come out with the gun.

As is normal for her, there is no semblance of order with her livestock.  Some goats are over here, some goats are over there, some goats are underneath the barn.  Chickens in the coop, chickens in the milk parlor, chickens in the kidding pen, chickens crammed up against the corner of the barn because of all the ruckus.  If I ran this place, everyone would be in their proper place, locked up and secured by dusk.

Anyways.  I get there and analyze the situation.  We cannot shoot the opossum so I ask for a pitchfork.  Which is nowhere to be found.  Because she never puts the darned thing back where it belongs.  It's probably underneath some pile of hay waiting to be uncovered the next time I walk over it and get smacked in the forehead Three-Stooges-Style.

So she finally comes up with a rather large scoop shovel (i.e. coal shovel for those of you who remember shoveling coal into the furnace).  Which is just a little bit bigger than the nest box where the opossum is crouched in.  She jams the shovel into the nest box and pins it's body against the back of the box.  So now what?  It's stuck there and she's repeatedly slamming the shovel against it's midsection.  Swearing like a truck driver the entire time.  My wife is so very classy.

The shovel isn't doing it so I take my somewhat long, sort of illegal pocket knife (which I only occasionally wear and only when in the confines of our own property, otherwise it would be against the law and I am a law abiding citizen) and visualized where the internal organs would be and make a forceful jab at it.  Effective, but apparently opossums are tough little suckers.  We wait for a few seconds and it is not dying fast enough for Carolyn so she takes the shovel and starts bashing it's head in, all the while spewing only half coherent gibberish like "stupid f'n furry chicken killing peckerwood" and other obscenities.  Since things are still not progressing quickly enough, she tells me to take the shovel, grabs my knife and saws his head half off.  The serrated edge on my knife is now visibly damaged.

By the way, did you know that with a "permission slip" I can carry a firearm
on my person (not saying that I do), but I cannot legally, even with their permission,
carry a stinking pocket knife with a blade longer than 3 1/2" long.

That, my dear readers, is how it really happened.  And don't let her make you believe it's the first time something like this has happened.  She has killed one possum with a pointed stick, and one by bashing it's head in with a rather large rock.  And her murderous rage crosses species as well.  One day I came home from work and saw her standing by the side of the barn, with a thirty-pound rock held above her head, waiting for a nasty rooster to come walking around the corner.

Normally I would not make such a long winded comment, but since I may or may not have possibly or probably been consuming or not consuming a non-regulated, non-taxed grain fermented clear libation, I couldn't help but clear the air about her most recent post.

And for all the Obama Cyber Warriors out there who have nothing better to do than waste my tax money snooping on peaceful US citizens, I would like to let you know that we have a box of crayons that has the capacity to hold up to 96 different colors of mass drywall destruction!  Screaming Green, Vivid Tangerine, Shocking Pink and the deadly Razzmatazz.  Although it has the capacity for holding 96, it is not currently fully loaded.  It's an unbridled carnival of crayon carnage!

My head hurts.  I think I need to take a nap now.

Tune in tomorrow for another nuisance wildlife battle story.