All That's Left of Walter...

I was so excited to get my new little ram lamb, Walter! Oh, what a cutie he was. Most of my sheep are naturally colored, meaning anything but white. Which is nice, and I like it, but I'd been wanting white so I could do some fun dying. And Walter was white.

Walter was a young icelandic, and at the tender age of 6 months he knew exactly what he was there for. The girls insisted on a bit of courting first, though...they insisted on knowing him at least 24 hours before allowing him to do his studly thing with them. And once he'd made the rounds, everyone was content.

I had a ewe named Dolly who used to get out quite a bit, and Walter realized if he stuck close to her backside he could follow along in her tailwind. So before too long, instead of just Dolly out roaming my front yard, Walter was there, too. Walter, unlike Dolly, began to get irritated with the routine of getting loose only to be put back into the pasture. He began to object. When a ram objects, you're in trouble, even a little ram. And this little ram had horns which were growing longer each day.

One day Walter and Dolly were out grazing near the barn, but of course on the outside of the fence, when I went out to feed. I went to get some hay to toss to the sheep on the inside when I noticed Walter staring at me. It wasn't a pleasant stare; it wasn't even a worried "Darn, she's caught us again" stare. No, this stare was a challenge; a dare; a "Go ahead, make my day" glare that I was receiving. I had in my hand the top of the grain can, which was just downright lucky as Walter lifted himself up on his back feet, then did what I've only seen the sheep on National Geographic do...he tucked his chin down to his neck and thrust himself forward towards me!

That was that. I don't need a mean, aggressive ram, especially one that's just seven months old! New fencing was in order, and I made certain that all the girls had been bred. Then I called my friends at the slaughter house and made arrangements for Walter to go to freezer camp.

We'd never eaten our own sheep before that. City Boy wanted to see what pepperoni would be like, so we had that and sausage made. Darling found the whole thing rather amusing (warped child that she is) and called it Wausage and Walteroni. She'd offer her friends Walteroni when they'd come to visit, and since these weren't kids raised on a farm (it is to a farm, City Boy!), they'd often gag, and we'd never see them again after that. I think it became a bit of a game to Darling, to see how many friends she could go through before running out of Walteroni.

City Boy decided we oughtn't waste that lovely head of Walter's, since he had such nice horns. He wanted to find someone to clean it up, but turns out it's a do it yourself type job. So City Boy took Walter's face out back and hung it in the trees by his horns. Yes, it was his face. The hide was still on that head, and the eyes were still in the skull. Disgusting, really. I don't recommend this for the weak stomach crowd. In fact, I don't recommend it at all.

Anyway, I wasn't really sure exactly where Walter was, just that he was hanging from a tree. One morning I walked back there with the dogs, who were busy chasing a coyote. I heard a little noise behind me and, camera in hand, thought I'd turn to find the dogs and their little friend. Instead I came face to face with Walter! Yuk! His eyes had sunken back into their sockets, and the hide was still on his skull, but a bit mangy looking. Totally gross! Be thankful I was too freaked out to take a picture. City Boy was dismayed to learn that Walter wasn't decomposing as quickly as he'd hoped, while I was left I wondering how many years I'd be stuck with the image of Walter's head swinging from a branch in my mind.

Once I knew where Walter was, I was sure to avoid him when I walked out back. But that didn't keep Walter from coming to me... One morning I got up after a huge windstorm and found one of the dogs with something in it's mouth. I called her up to the door to see what she had; it was one of Walter's horns! I ran out back to the tree to see the only thing left, the other horn still swinging from it's rope. The skull was no where to be found.

And that's all that remains of Walter...two horns, a host of bad memories and a couple packages of Walteroni!

O'ppossum O'Power

Okay, who here doesn't love 'possums? Those cute, adorable little rascals...



What? You don't love them? You want to see them dead, which is why you swerve to hit them at night while driving home in your SUV?



Well, I love them. From their long, ugly snouts to their skinny, rat tails; and just look at those adorable little toes! I find them to be just charming little creatures. Okay, perhaps charming isn't quite the right word. But I do like them in an offbeat sort of way. I was even able to hold one once; a young 'possum who's mother had been killed had been taken in by an oppossum orphanage. It was so soft you just wouldn't believe it. Of course, if you've got tail issues, you probably wouldn't have enjoyed the fact that they wrap it around your arm just like they would a tree. But that little orphaned oppossum had me wrapped around his skinny little rat tail in a matter of moments as he snuggled down in my arms and dozed off just like a baby...



Last year one of the dogs was playing with a young possum outside and I put it into a tub. It took a few hours, but it's heart rate finally bumped up enough that it climbed out of the tub and wandered away.


This morning when I got up, I spotted Tait outside with something gray. At first I thought one of my chickens had gotten loose over night, but when I finally got the dog to drop it, I realized it was a young possum. Poor thing! Playing dead out there, trying to avoid getting eaten. I called the dogs in and left the baby on the lawn while I did my chores, hoping it's blood would get to pumping and it would get up and wander off before the dogs came back out.


No such luck. 'Possums take a long time to come back to 'life', especially on such a cold night as this one had been. This one evidentally had no desire to get up, so I went and got an old rabbit cage, put on a pair of gloves, wrapped the possum in an old jacket and put it in the cage, thinking I'd just put it out of harms way so the dogs could come back out and the little dear would remain safe. The best place I could think of was the back of my pickup. As long as it was in there, I figured I'd toss in a little hay and a doggie bisciut for when the little guy woke up. And then I went about my daily routine with the dogs happily trotting around wondering what had happened to their chew toy.



A little later, the men in my life were out of bed. The first thing they did was wonder outloud where the possum had gone. What? It'd been there last night? Yes, they said, it had. It was dead, they told me. I assured them it wasn't...it was playing possum...



"Nope," they said. "Not playing."



"Oh...but then that means..."



"You've got a dead 'possum in the back of your truck."



I'm still hoping he's playing....