Oplaying Opossum

Yesterday I came home to something which one does not care to come home to discover: a bad odor. In this case, a really, truly, magnificently terrible odor. Something had obviously died under the front porch.

It was time to man up and assume the responsibility of the the head of the household. I assured my wife not to worry, that I would take care of things, to go ahead and go to dinner with her cousin and I would have the problem solved well before she returned.

Unfortunately the underside of our front porch is not easily accessible. It is totally closed off outside, which meant I had no option but to open a window from the basement inside our house in order to get at whatever was causing the stink.

I knew as soon as I pulled back the glass that it was bad. "What is it?" my daughter called from upstairs as I savagely gagged.

"A dead opossum," I answered.

"Oh, poor opossum!" she lamented sadly. Then catching herself, she added, "Poor you!"

Nice try at the save there, sweetheart.

That was the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do, removing that two or three day old carcass. I though it was a Siamese cat at first. Then I worried that it was, you know, playing possum. I quickly saw more than enough evidence that that was not the case.

I had four shots of whiskey when I was done, along with a beer chaser. Or was it beer with a whiskey chaser? I don't know, I don't care, I threw out the clothes I was wearing, I took two (three?) showers as hot as I could stand them, I likely as not had a fifth shot. Still, I sit here gagging anew as I write.

I hope no one out there ever has to do what I did last night. Disgusting isn't a strong enough word, but it will have to do. I have to stop thinking about it. Now.

Good-bye.