So this morning at 3AM Carole wakes up hearing noises. I check around, look downstairs, figure it’s the newspaper being delivered. Back to bed.
Up again at 6AM, this time the noise is coming from our closet. I go in there and spot something moving. Turns out it’s a small opossum.
I go out to the living room and we try to figure out what to do. I stupidly decide to whack the thing with the closest handy weapon, a curtain rod. I go back to the closet, whack, no effect, the little bastard pokes his head out to look at me mockingly. Second whack is much harder — and the sharp end of the curtain rod has now sliced open my right index finger at the base.
We go to the emergency room. The doc says I’ve nicked a tendon, but he can fix it, which is good news — the nick is vertical, not horizontal, so there’s little danger of the tendon being severed. He puts two stitches in the tendon and ten stitches in the finger, then puts my fingers and wrist in a splint and my arm in a sling. Woo hoo.
We have no idea what happened to the opossum, that little bastard.
Update: I bagged the li’l bastard on Wednesday morning thanks to a couple of glue traps and a teaspoon of peanut butter placed into a cardboard box in the kitchen. I then ejected him from our home (as opposed to cutting off his head and mounting it on a pike in the village square). I should mention I suffered more through this way more than he ever did (did I mention I got 12 stitches in my hand?), so those of you who said this was all karmic payback can bite my doughy white ass. That is all.