One Less Possum on the Farm
I finally talked my mother-in-law into letting me get chickens. Now, if you know her, you know this was no small feat. She grew up with chickens, swears they’re mean, and wanted nothing to do with them. Eventually, after some serious begging, I promised—cross my heart, hope to cry—that I’d keep them in a run and not let them free-range. Reluctantly, she agreed.
Of course, once I had the green light, I dove headfirst into research mode. I picked out a coop and a pretty spacious run. It took us a couple of weeks (and a lot of patience) to assemble everything. We covered the chicken wire with hardware cloth and even buried it a foot underground. Like Fort Knox, but for birds. With any luck, nothing’s getting in.
Right after she said yes, I found a local farm offering pullets and jumped at the chance. I became the proud owner of three 20-week-old black Orpingtons. Naturally, I named them Eliza, Angelica, and Peggy. We started them off in a giant baby pen in the garage until they were ready to move outdoors.
Now, let me tell you—that first night, I was a total nervous wreck. I kept imagining raccoons with tiny crowbars. But over time, I relaxed. We’d done a solid job on the coop and run. Admittedly, the gate was our one weak spot… but really, what were the odds anything would figure that out?
Welp… turns out, the odds were higher than I thought.
Fast forward a few months to last week. That morning, I walked out to replace their water and saw something white dart into the bean field. “Must be a barn cat,” I thought, and went about my day without another care in the world.
Later that afternoon, I came home, gathered eggs, and gave the girls a little frozen corn. All was calm and normal.
Then, around 9:30 p.m., I went back out to lock them up for the night. I approached the gate, reached to open it—and there it was: a possum trying to squeeze through like it was on a mission. I screamed (okay, shrieked) and the possum hissed at me like something out of a horror movie.
Without thinking, I bolted across the yard. In Crocs. Not in sport mode.
Immediately, I ran inside and woke up Pete, who was already in bed. He groggily got up, threw on his robe and slippers, and followed me outside. On the way past the milk house, he grabbed a shovel.
When we got back to the coop—yep, Mr. Possum was still there.
But not for long. Pete took care of it with one solid swing of the shovel and carried it off behind the barn to the burn pile. I checked on the girls, locked them up tight, and slapped a plastic storage bin lid in front of the gate. Then, I dumped an entire bottle of cayenne pepper all over the ground to deter any other wildlife—because why not?
The next day, Pete installed a solar motion light over the gate. The lid has been in place ever since and I now own a 5-pound tub of cayenne I sprinkle around like chicken lady fairy dust.
Julia – 1 | Possums – 0
God, I miss town.