“Right, yes. You’re right. Why didn’t I think of that?” I take a deep breath. God, I am so not equipped to deal with something sick and dying. I wonder if Luke’s credit card would cover it if I took the poor thing to the vet. That is if we can catch it and if it’s not feral. Jesus Murphy. Why does this have to be happening?
“Are you coming?”
“I’m coming.” I let Shade nearly rip my hand off as he drags me across the deck and into the yard.
“It’s over here.” He points to a shady strip by the fence to the left. “It was there.”
“I’m sure it still is. Let’s have a look.”
“It looked bad, and it hissed at me. Is it dying?” Shade looks up at me, his eyes huge and already filling with tears.
“No! No, it’s not going to die. I’m not going to let it happen.” I really hope that’s true. This kid has experienced way too much death and disappointment already. I can’t be a liar. This poor, freaking cat has to live.
Shade tugs me over to the fence, and I rush as fast as I can while trying to come up with a contingency plan in my head. Finally, we reach the fence, and there is something—a hideous-looking creature with a long snout, pink ears, a scaly-looking tail, and grey hair all over its rather large, round body.
We get close, and all of a sudden, the cat turns around and hisses frantically at us.
“Holy chicken nuggets! That’s not a cat!” I back grab Shade frantically and drag him back four or five steps. That is a freaking wild animal. “That’s a…a…I think it’s a swamp rat!” I make that quick evaluation based on the wiry-looking gray hair and the long, scaly tail. Plus, the creature’s body does kind of have a rat shape.
“What’s a swap rat?” Shade giggles.
I don’t know what’s funny about that. “I…uh…well, maybe it’s uh…ah…”
“I think it’s an opossum. We’ve seen them before. Me and Dad.”
Well, bloody hell. I guess I know when I’ve been played. Shade knew all along it wasn’t a cat. I think. Or maybe it just dawned on him right this moment.
“Yeah. I think you’re right. It’s a possum.” I’ve never seen one before, so I don’t know anything about them. But I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be loitering around in anyone’s backyard. The animal looks confused and scared as he stares at us. His pointy nose twitches, and his whiskers vibrate like it’s trying to sense whether we mean it harm or not.
If it does get scared and think we’re going to do something, will it spring at us? Attack us? Do they have sharp teeth? Can they jump off their tails? Are they dangerous? Why is it out in the middle of the day? I’m pretty sure that’s not a good sign.
“We don’t have possums,” Shade says patiently. “We have opossums. They’re different.”
“Okay, Mr. Internet. Thanks a lot. If you know there’s a difference, how come you thought it was a cat?”
“Because I knew if I told you there was an opossum back here, you’d freak, and you wouldn’t help me. He looks bad. Maybe there’s something wrong with him.”
The opossum backs up until its bottom hits the fence. Then, it hisses again. Violently. God, it’s actually kind of cute, and it doesn’t look that bad. Shaggy, yes, but not skin and bones. It’s well filled out. I think it’s just scared. And maybe they’re supposed to look like that—a little bit mangy.
“I think he’s fine. He seems lively enough. He probably just climbed into the yard and can’t figure out how to get out.”
“We could help him out. Show him the way.”
“No! Don’t get close! It could…it could bite you or something. It’s a wild animal, and it’s scared. We shouldn’t touch it.”
“What are we going to do then?”
“I…I don’t know. I’ll call someone. A wildlife rescue or something because it needs to be relocated somewhere safe. This is the middle of the city. This is so not cool.”
“I think it’s pretty cool.” Well, yeah, he would. He’s freaking four.
“Come back into the house with me so I can get my phone.”
“No, I’ll wait here. You go get it.”
I’m ready to argue, but I figure it will be faster to just run and get the dang phone than to try and reason with a four-year-old. Kids always win. They’ll bring out the B-bomb. The Because-bomb. Or the W-bomb, which is the whole Why-bomb. You try reasoning with that. It’s impossible.
I dash across the grass and nearly miss a step on the deck and kill myself. I’m more careful when walking back. I’m not even halfway there—since I’m trying to look up wildlife groups—when Shade starts yelling and crying. He runs up to me and takes my hand. His cheeks are stained with tears.