We have a couple of baby possums in our back yard.  They are apparently on their own, and have been there for a few days.  Such is way of possums, apparently — if they fall off the mother’s back, well, good luck, kid.  Under the circumstances I refer to them as Hansel and Gretel, although I don’t know the sexes and can’t tell them apart anyway.

They are cute — at the moment — but a Google search turns up dire warnings about keeping possums as pets.  (Yes, I know that the word technically starts with an “O” but I refuse to use it.  If “Possum” was good enough for Sam Clemens and Walt Kelly, then it is good enough for me.)

Here is a photo of one, being pestered by myself.  They are living in the bushes next to my lab, although they are quite active and have been seen all over the yard.


Despite the temptation to adopt them, they have to survive on their own, and since they have managed to do so for a week now and don’t appear to be starving, one hopes for the best.  It helps that my wife has surrounded the yard with a dense selection of bushes, trees, and vines that are really more jungle than anything else.  Cleaning the leaves out from under this mess was given up on years ago, and if you (not you, personally) shove a hand into this mulch you can easily bring up a fistful of worms and earwigs.  Of all the yards to be abandoned in, ours was probably the closest to a possum version of a Gingerbread House there could be.

Hopefully without a witch, although I’m keeping an eye on our rather predatory cat.

Bob out.