I’ve not written anything about the Key West critters for some time–fortunately, it’s been a thin critter year (unless you consider worms to be critters which I don’t). There was a smaller rodent and reptile population after Irma, not so many rats, iguanas. And right now the temperatures are too cold for the few, fool iguanas hanging around and they are either unconscious or dying or trying to sun-survive on white, cemetery slabs.
However, my latest, mostly definitely unwanted, critt visitor is a possum, opossum, whatever you want to call them, I’m not at all interested in finding out if there’s a difference or what variety of possum he may be. He’s big and ugly and comes out from under the house at night when I’m sitting on the porch and scares the crap outta me. I curse and yell at him and he runs back under the house. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem aggressive and I’m not about to provoke (and I call him “he” because he is just too unattractive to be a woman–hairy face, thin lips, no make-up). So now what?
As I’m asking my neighbors what to do about this bastard under my house, one lovely lady that I like very much says, “Oh my, you can’t touch him. That’s Ricky Martin (I guess he is a “he”). He came to this neighborhood as a baby and I named him and watched him grow.” Really? This woman isn’t old and senile–for whatever reason, she’s a frickin’ possum-hugger with a love for Latin pop stars and a sense of irony (I once saw a FL facebook post that rallied for the misunderstood possum). Oh, for cryin’ out loud. I can’t harm him now–it’s Ricky Martin. Jesus, no man-slamming here, he’s gorgeous, I love Ricky Martin. Sigh … I promised my neighbor that I would leave the critter alone but that it would be hard for me to embrace the Ricky association. I also promised to leave a trail of trash to her porch till he moved down the lane and scared the crap outta her.