Once when I lived right across from the Toledo airport in the farmhouse with all the pine trees bordering the yard, I had a large, declawed cat. Someone had given the fluffy gray and peach female to me as a house cat, but she had outdoor dreams, and would slip out every chance she got.

One night, I got home after dark, and she escaped as I came in the door. After changing my clothes and doing the chores without seeing her go to the porch door where she habitually ended her rambles, I called her and wandered around the front yard, as I did not want to leave a helpless cat outdoors all night.

The beauty of the fall night was enhanced by the rising of a lovely golden harvest moon. Looking at it through the branches of one of the pines, I saw a cat-sized lump about as far off the ground as she could reasonably be expected to jump with no claws to help her along. Chirruping to her, I started toward the tree. When she did not respond by coming to me, I reached up and plucked my naughty peach and gray bundle from the crotch by the scruff of her neck, swinging her clear of the tree in the same motion.

The instant I touched her, I knew I was in trouble. Instead of nice, fluffy, soft, long cat hair, I was holding something covered with short, coarse, bristly hair, and a set of long jaws filled with wicked-looking fangs, bared in my direction.

Holding the body at arm's length, I could avoid the jaws, but not get enough oomph to fling the offended creature from me far enough to be sure it would not turn and embed its awesome array of glistening white teeth in my leg.

I edged closer to the house, finally coming to the porch. Reaching the other arm inside, I flipped on the porch light. An opossum! No wonder it had not run! It had been playing dead when I so rudely called its bluff and snatched it from its cozy berth in my pine.

Holding the door open with one foot, I leaned in far enough to snag the phone. Calling the science teacher, I offered him the 'possum.

"Too old to make a good pet. Just let it go."

"How?"

"Where is it now?"

"At the end of my arm, fangs toward me!"

He made record time doing the quarter mile from town to my farmhouse to rescue me. The teasing I had to take was worth it to get rid of that weight at the end of my arm. He later confided that he was in awe of anyone who could just pluck a wild animal out of a tree bare-handed.

I reminded him that I'd thought it was a perfectly biddable house cat, not a wild animal. My knocking knees attested to the fact that it wasn't courage, just a case of mistaken identity.

Writers thrive on feedback! Please share your comments, good, bad, or indifferent, with me by clicking on the mailbox below!