The Desert I'm In
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Today's sermon: One possum, going to waste.
Last Sunday I was driving up the main artery through Snobville, and I saw a nice, meaty, and completely dead adult possum on the road. And not splattered like a modernist painting, either. Just lying there intact, except for some obvious head trauma.
A short walk later, I returned to said possum and hefted it by the tail. I'm telling you, reader, this was a fully-fleshed possum -- not some juvey. It took every last ounce of Anne strength to haul that critter up and then hike three blocks home, holding it out at a suitable distance.
Possums have kind of spiny tails. Did you know that? Like, tiny spiky hairs that don't show.
I couldn't just re-position the possum on my street. There are tender youngsters on every side these days. So I deposited it discreetly in the ivy alongside my driveway, very close to the street. There are huge oak trees across the way, just perfect for Sacred Thunderbirds on the search for supper.
Alas and alack. Five days later, plenty of windy weather, and not a vulture to be seen. The possum is still lying in the ivy, not yet stinking to high heaven. (It's been unseasonably chilly here.)
I do see vultures soaring about here in Camden County, and I have even seen a few on streets like mine, dining on squirrels and trash. But I guess the population isn't dense enough to find every Thanksgiving possum that gets placed in a secure location.
I haven't given up yet. Won't do that until the odor forces me to mound some dirt over the carcass. That will be a sad day, indeed ... considering that the same Sacred Offering, placed in a field near the Chesapeake Bay, was consumed within six hours.
O bitter irony, among many in this life of mine: I love vultures and live in one of the most densely populated counties in America!
Alert the Gods. Dinner's ready!