Introduction
The first time I saw a possum up close was through the glass door to my parents’ back porch in Bethesda, Maryland. I’d seen possums before, but this was different: we were face-to-face with just a foot or two between us. He crunched our outdoor cat’s kibble while I studied his features by the porch light. His head was wider than his body and one ear was missing. A long, beige tail drooped at his backside, and at his front, a mouthful of teeth shone like daggers. His whiskers grew in zigzags from his muzzle and forehead, and his fur was tousled in all directions. I felt a pang of affection seeing his carefree enjoyment of a midnight snack—the reason I was awake, too. But everything I’d heard about possums rushed to mind: they’re diseased, dirty, mean. I turned off the porch light to give him his privacy, and for years I never questioned the harmful myths that plague his species.
Decades later, I had about as much to do with possums as most people do, which is nearly nothing. I had completed my PhD in linguistics, was teaching with Tulane University, and had begun working as an artist and business owner. I loved animals and took every opportunity to incorporate them into my life: painting them in my art, supporting animal rescue organizations, committing to a vegan lifestyle, and even working as a vet tech between grad school degrees. As far as I was concerned, every animal could be cute if you gave it a chance. But possums?
Then one day, I got a call about a possum in need of help. Wondering if my small car was big enough to hold a snarling beast that I thought would be in a large kennel, I apprehensively said yes. As I pressed my phone to my ear with my shoulder and tried to clear the clutter from the backseat, my friend gave me a truly pitiable rundown of the struggles this possum faced. He had been taken in as a pet (bad idea—see page 110), and when it was clear he was suffering, likely from malnutrition, his owner dropped him off with a possum-loving friend who promised to find a wildlife rehabilitator. In the thick of baby season, all the local rehabbers and wildlife centers were too full for new intakes. The friend’s last call was to a rehabber who knew me—and who knew I wouldn’t have the heart to say no. Helping out sounded temporary. A momentary excursion outside my comfort zone. I got into my 1971 Elm Green Volkswagen Beetle and started driving toward the animal that would change my life.
The GPS directions led me to an RV park, where a friendly woman invited me inside an adorable “glamper.” She shared that she used to be a Texas beauty queen and rummaged in her fridge for a fruit cup while I slid into the booth of the kitchenette. Looking around for a kennel, I noticed a crocheted possum plushie on the bed and a possum-print valence over the glamper’s window. She sat down across from me, placing the fruit cup between us, and then I saw the possum. He was tiny—the size of a gerbil and missing a few patches of hair—and he emerged from the zipper of her jacket, making a beeline for the fruit. The possum sat up on his haunches, holding the plastic cup with one hand and sorting through the diced fruits with the other. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s in juice. I wouldn’t give him the syrupy stuff.” He found the unnaturally colored cherry he was looking for. Every time his mouth closed to chew, it formed a smile that beamed pure bliss.
Twenty minutes later, he and I were in the Beetle, trusting its two working cylinders to get us home. The baby, whom I later named Sesame, stayed nestled on my shoulder as we sputtered along. I sang to him quietly while I reconsidered every thought I’d ever had about possums.
Once settled at home, I dived into every resource I could find on how to care for his species, all the while unsuccessfully seeking a more experienced caretaker for him. With the help of a veterinarian, I followed a diet and care regimen designed to treat his malnutrition, keeping a close eye on his progress. With each passing day, I fell further for his impish, trusting personality. His dark boba eyes, brimming with unending depth, took in everything. They also never let me out of his sight, which is a problem for an animal who is meant to be wild. If I tried to give him space, he’d run up my pants leg and settle right back into the spot he’d claimed on our first ride home. Just as unexpected as our mutual affection was the information I was learning about possums; it ran counter to everything I thought I knew.
Not only are possums the United States’ only native marsupial, they’ve also contributed to the country’s ecology, history, and culture in outsized and unexpected ways. They’ve been around for sixty-five million years—appearing just as the dinosaurs went extinct—and their physiology is completely unique. They were kept as pets in the White House by multiple US presidents. They’re also environmental heroes who benefit humans and the world around them by eating cockroaches, ticks, and venomous snakes. And they do all this in the shadows—both literally and figuratively.
At the time I was getting to know more about Sesame’s species, a positive mainstream conversation about possums was virtually nonexistent. My online search for opossum returned a gag gift of canned possum and some unflattering photos of surprised specimens. Digging a bit deeper, I found Heidi the Cross-Eyed Opossum (whom we’ll meet on page 51), though by that time she’d passed from old age and popular attention had turned to the next viral animal celebrity. A few newsy opinion pieces advocated for possums by insisting they’re “not that bad.” The more I searched for pro-possum content, the clearer it became that possums were ripe for a renaissance. (I’ve since found the National Opossum Society and the Opossum Society of the United States, both wonderful organizations I love; my Google algorithm at the time, however, hid them from me.)
While his skin, fur, and overall health improved, Sesame was permanently affected by his early upbringing in one important way: he had neither the disposition nor the desire to be wild. He refused to show any interest in the activities—bug catching, outdoor sleeping, hissing at humans—that would help him survive on his own. After learning about possums’ vibrant lives in the wild, I had hoped he could one day eat ticks, fall in love, and make sesame seeds (babies of his own). But it became clear he wouldn’t survive if released. I consulted with a rehabber friend, and she suggested he would make a great ambassador for his kind. If I had been so mistaken about possums, there must be others like me out there, and perhaps Sesame could help them discover an unlikely friend who’d been there all along. Sesame and his possum advocacy found an audience on social media. As his life went online, Sesame’s friends grew to thousands, then hundreds of thousands. His inbox overflowed with love letters, fan art, funny stories, and—my personal favorite—testimony about how he completely changed people’s opinions on possums.
Sesame inspired me to learn everything I could about possums, and in the time since he passed from old age I’ve honored his memory by rehabilitating and releasing hundreds of orphaned or injured possums. The goal of rehabbing is always to release healthy and self-sufficient individuals back to the wild, where they can enjoy their rightful freedom and autonomy. In some instances, injury or genetics will cause an animal to be nonreleasable, and in special cases these animals can be wildlife ambassadors, advocating and educating on behalf of their species. Regardless of their individual circumstances and personalities, every possum is a reminder of what I never guessed while studying the old possum on my parents’ porch: they’re shy, gentle, funny, and really freaking cute. Moreover, they enrich the planet and human lives in ways we’d never expect.
So this is for them, for you, and for anyone seeking possum positivity: an entire book dedicated to defeating the negative myths that have plagued possums for too long. The easiest myth to defeat—the one that Sesame corrected for me as soon as his whiskers caught wind of a fruit cup—is that possums are not cute. Nothing could be further from the truth. Need proof? Just ask the possums in the pages ahead.
Copyright © 2022 by Ally Burguieres. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
