The reluctant possum-slayer

Every summer before my birthday and every winter before Christmas, I would beg to get one.

In fact, I was a lot like that kid from "A Christmas Story." My mom was a lot like everyone else in the movie: "You'll put your eye out!"

My brother Paul was a little more understanding (he was always my "cool" brother), and promised me that when I turned 10 he would get me one.

If I remember correctly, I didn't get one on my 10th birthday, and I probably threw a tantrum, but I did get one that next Christmas.

Was I ready for that responsibility? Of course not.

I went straight out into the backyard and shot a little chickadee right in the chest. The poor thing maintained its grip on its branch and spun upside down. It hung there -- suspended from the branch -- for a few seconds before falling to the soft ground beneath the tree to die.

I felt sick to my stomach and walked over to get a closer look. It's little chest was heaving as it looked up at me. And then it died.

I was heartbroken over what I had done, and I buried the little bird in the backyard. It was a lesson I would never forget, and that was the last warm-blooded animal I intentionally harmed in the next three decades.

But all that changed a couple of days ago.

My friend and neighbor, Cee Cee DeFur, had been having a problem with a possum coming up on her back porch and eating her cats' food.

Wednesday night, she had a chance to get her revenge, as she caught the critter in the act.

She threw a shoe at it, but it held its ground. She threw some sea shells at it, but it just stood there and looked at her. It wasn't going anywhere, so she decided to get out her BB gun.

By the time I was called into the picture, she had pumped 20 BBs into the creature.

"This thing will not die, John, and it's bleeding all over my porch," she said over the phone.

And so, all of a sudden, I was called in to be the tough guy.

When I arrived on the scene, the possum was still alive, so after getting my nerve up (I kept imagining it suddenly scrambling across the porch and sinking its fangs into my ankle, infecting me with rabies) I took the BB gun and stuck the muzzle right behind its ear and pulled the trigger.

It flopped over, and I thought it was over.

But no, it struggled for a moment, then righted itself. It took me two more shots until I finally delivered the coup de grace, and after a wild fit of convulsions that sent us both skittering to the edges of the porch to make sure we were out of its range, it finally died.

Although it had to be done, the experience rocketed me back to when I was a child beneath that tree, watching that little bird die.

I took a moment to ask God for forgiveness, and then we hurried to pick up her daughter from church.

When we pulled back into the driveway, I said, "Wouldn't it be creepy if the possum were gone? Have you ever seen 'Pet Sematary'?"

Cee Cee said "Stop it!" She doesn't like scary movies.

We pulled behind the house, and a possum jumped off the porch, hightailing it toward the fence row.

Cee Cee almost jumped out of her seat with surprise, and we nervously laughed it off.

It was, of course, another possum, as the first one had not disappeared from where we had left him.

Although we were glad we had not witnessed a supernatural event, Cee Cee was not too happy that she may have to go through the whole ordeal again.

If she does, I hope I won't have to be the one to help. I just don't have the stomach for that type of thing.

-- John Philleo is editor of the Times-Gazette. He can be reached by e-mail at editor@t-g.com.