On one such occasional when making
my afternoon rounds I noticed a tripped trap, the door closed. I peeped inside
and found a very ugly and hissing possum grinning back at me. I called my friend,
Sylvester Burton and asked if he would like me to bring him this nasty looking
critter and he expletively turned down the offer. He suggested I give Melvin
Peterson a call, remembering he did partake of the possum cuisine. Now let me
clarify that Sly, my rabbit box buddy is black as is Melvin and I am white. Sly
nor I would consider eating a possum but Melvin, born of the old school, had
lived through hard times apparently, and eating often meant you couldn’t be
choosey. Papa and Melvin could have been best friends for sure.
I gave Melvin a call and he
chuckled on the other end of the phone saying he would be there in ten minutes
to take old fuzz face off my hands. I swear I heard him smacking his lips
anticipating the forthcoming meal. Let me clarify that Melvin eats chicken feet
or footsies as he calls them. They do sell them prepackaged in some grocery
stores; I’ve seen them.
Melvin, like most folks in this
southern setting, hunted for a hobby. He raised rabbit dogs, aka beagles, and
just so happened to have his beagle hauling cage on the back of his old pickup
truck. He lured the possum out of the box and into the cage. He advised me to
burn out the box to remove the possum’s odor. I asked him what he planned to do
with the scrawny black jack possum. He told me he would clean out its system
with bread and milk, fatten it up for a couple of months then have it with
sweet taters and onions, a Sunday dinner set for a king so he said. I witnessed
him smack his lips first hand this time. Mine remained dry and chapped. I just
told him not to invite me over.
I saw Melvin from time to time and
he still had that possum in the beagle cage on his truck. He had never gotten
around to relocating it in a pen. The possum had definitely put on a few pounds
and appeared almost groomed, not greasy like I had last remembered seeing it. After
the allotted couple of months had expired, I saw Melvin at one of our local
hangouts, a country store of sorts where many a yarn was spun by hunters and
fisherman alike. I peeked in the beagle cage and didn’t see Mister Black Jack. The
cage was empty. Destiny had run its course I suspected.
I asked him how the old boy had
tasted. He stared at the ground and acted right peculiar. He he-hawed around
and finally said he didn’t eat him. I quizzed him further asking why? He said
he couldn’t. I asked what had happened to the critter then. He told me he had
set it free. I didn’t get it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sort of glad he didn’t
eat it. I just didn’t comprehend just why he had turned the critter loose after
priming him for the oven.
Melvin told me that he had hauled
that possum around with him everywhere and had even begun talking to it, paying
it more attention that he did any of his beagles. He would share his meals with
it, throwing it extra scraps. He said he couldn’t harm a pet and that is what
it had become. You don’t garnish your friends with taters and onions he told
me. That just isn’t right he spoke with conviction. I swear I saw him tear up
just talking about that possum. I told him not to ride any chickens around in
that cage or he would have to give up chicken footsies. We both laughed and I’m
confident that possum is out there somewhere grinning and missing his friend
too.
