Things That Go Screech in the Night

On Monday night at 4:00 a.m., Maggie needed to go outside. Rod graciously did the honors, trudging outside with the dogs into the cool night air.  Half-asleep, I was vaguely aware of their exit when I heard the most peculiar scream issuing from the woods behind our house.  Half feline and half goblin, it sounded like a cry and sob combined.  Chloe, so I am told, tore back to the house in terror; once inside, she leapt onto the bed and dug in close beside me, not moving a muscle for the next three hours.  What can I say?  She's an absolutely adorable but perfectly useless dog.  It's hard to believe that she's classified by the AKC as a working breed unless one considers reclining on laps a form of labor.  Good stalwart Maggie, however, puffed out her chest and answered each successive scream from the woods with a hearty woof.  Even in her debilitated state, she was going to face down this mysterious varmint.  She was, nonetheless, relieved to accompany Rod back into the house.

We still can't identify the sound, despite listening to audio snippets on the web.  We've narrowed down our suspects to a bobcat and screech owl; I think Rod is inclining toward the latter.  

I must say that spring has truly sprung in the Downs, between the possums, snakes, and mysterious screaming beasties.  Soon the big ugly toads that reside in the creek and serenade us through the night will make an appearance.  Often I find one on the front step, puffing up with indignation if I dare to push it aside gently with my toe.  I'm told these toads excrete some sort of vaguely psychedelic ooze: neighbors have warned me not to let the dogs lick them (as if). After the toads, come the tortoises, who regularly hazard their lives when crossing the road. I'm happy to report that everyone in the neighborhood makes a collective effort on their behalf, stopping cars and carrying them to safety.  As for the mosquitoes that feed upon us all, human and animal alike, no one accords them mercy.  I slap the miscreants with impunity, delighting at the little splat of blood (usually mine) that signals their demise.  I have no doubt that I will suffer many lowly reincarnations as a result of my terrible attitude, but I draw the line at mosquitoes.  Good karma only goes so far.

The Possum in the Trash and the Snake in the Basement

Husband calls at 9:00 a.m. and informs me there's a possum in the trash can.

Me:  And why didn't you let him out?

Rod: I was afraid Maggie might attack him.

Me:  Why didn't you put Maggie in the car and then cope with said possum?

Rod: We were late for Maggie's appointment with the oncologist.

And so I found myself staring at a possum who had somehow pried open the lid of our trash can and slid down the recepticle to enjoy a nocturnal feast.  I thought that surfing trash cans was largely the domain of raccoons, but the sight before me suggested otherwise.  The possum regarded me with the bilious expression of a drunk recovering from a bender.  Then I noticed his panting, in addition to a protruding stomach. Was he sick?  I gave the trash can, now on its side, a little shake, hoping to encourage Mr. Possum's departure.  Instead, he dug in, resting his head on a discarded sport sock.

Another phone exchange ensued.

Me:  I think he's dying.

Rod:  They're nocturnal.  He probably just wants to sleep.  Leave him alone and eventually he'll wander off into the woods.

Me:  Maybe our trash is killing him.  What if he ate one of the socks?  What if it's entwined around his intestine?

Rod:  Then there's nothing we can do about it, right?

Annoyed by my husband's eminent reasonableness, I ventured outside again to look at Mr. Possum, who was either sleeping or dying--I couldn't tell which.  I gently picked up one end of the trash can and tipped it, sliding the marsupial to the opening.  He showed his teeth.  Testiness I took for a good sign.  We regarded each other warily until he closed his eyes, resting his head once again on the discarded sock.  Defeated, I went back into the house, certain to find a dead possum in a couple of hours.

As Rod predicted, Mr. Possum wandered away, no doubt irritated by these continuous intrusions. I worried about the effect of coffee grounds and crème fraîche on his digestive track until I read that possums (technically the Virginia Opossum or Didelphis Virginiana) are omnivores, frequently feasting on road kill.  They are also impervious to snake venom.  I figured that any creature who can withstand the bite of a rattlesnake will survive our yuppie garbage. 

Speaking of snakes, on Wednesday night I nearly stepped on one that slithered into the lower basement level of our home.  I had just put away my knitting, turned off the BBC evening report, and was making for the stairs when I heard Chloe growl, an uncharacteristic sound for this otherwise docile animal.  I looked down to see a coiled snake at my feet.  I screamed, jumped, and painfully slammed my hip into the handrail, instigating utter canine chaos as the dogs circled the intruder.  Terrified the snake might be poisonous, I grabbed the dogs by their respective collars and dragged them upstairs.  I slammed the door shut, breathing hard.  What to do?  If I left the snake below, it might eventually work its way up the stairs and under the door, finding me in the bedroom.  I imagined waking at 3:00 to the sensation of a reptile undulating against me, not the sort of amorous encounter I want in the middle of the night.

I called Rod, who was in Miami on a business trip.

Me:  There's a snake in the basement.

Rod:  What?

Me:  There's a snake in the basement.

Rod:  Is it poisonous?

Me:  How the hell do I know?

Rod: (thinking for a moment) Either sweep it out of the house or put a bucket over the snake. I'll deal with it when I get home.

Me:  The snake might die by then.  I don't want it in the house,  but I don't want it to die.

Rod:  (exasperated)  Then sweep it out of the house.

As it turned out, the snake was more terrified of me than I was of it.  I grabbed a broom and gingerly poked at the little serpent to see if it attacked or showed fangs.  He coiled defensively into a mound.  Satisfied the snake wasn't poisonous, I gently pushed him into the garage and then outside.  I went upstairs to bed, relieved that I wouldn't have an unexpected companion in the wee hours, at least not of the reptilian variety.

The next day I glanced at the web site for the Chesapeake Bay Program, hoping to identify the interloper.  Recognizing the markings, I realized to my horror that I had indeed swept a baby copperhead out of the house. Further research disclosed that the babies are just as venomous as the adults.  It was my good fortune to have encountered a cowardly copperhead; still, I'd rather not press my luck.

A condo in the heart of urban D.C. is starting to look good.