I woke last Wednesday, as the whole world did, to the news Donald Trump had just been elected the Divided States of America’s 45th President. I also woke to a possum in my yard.
I had gone to bed the night before cognizant of what was appearing to be the incontestable outcome of this contentious election. Still, in a mix of one part denial and one part wishful thinking, I lay my head down and tried to sleep. Tossing and turning and suffering from what could only be diagnosed as #TrumpAnxiety I finally got out of bed to face reality.
Still bleary eyed, I let my dog Bailey out as I always do. I poured myself a cup of coffee and gazed out the kitchen window to the backyard. There I saw Bailey calmly smelling a furry little creature. I immediately grabbed my phone (to take pictures of course) and headed outside to investigate. I then came back inside and called my husband.
“Is it alive?” he asked.
“It’s a possum.” I replied.
I waited out the day in the hopes the possum was only playing possum and would shake off the encounter with my dog and get up and walk away. He didn’t.
This is it, I thought, the first sign of the #TrumpApocalypse.
“I’ll have a garbage bag and shovel waiting for you when you get home.” I reported back to Rob.
My daughter and I went on with our day, every once in a while checking in on the still dead possum. We had dinner, cleared dishes, Megan got on with her homework, I headed to the family room to watch TV. Flicking through channels, trying to avoid the post election media coverage, I was jolted to attention by the overwhelmingly pungent burnt smell of skunk. The stench was permeating through the house at an alarming rate.
“Megan!” I yelled running up the stairs. “Where’s the dog?!”
“Outside.” She responded, momentarily still focused on her homework until the odour hit her nostrils.
I raced to the back door and called for Bailey. He approached me in clear distress. Saliva drooled from his lips. His eyes were red. He twitched and rolled around in the grass. And he reeked. Beyond belief.
“Oh no!” I sobbed.
Sure this was the second sign of the #TrumpApocalypse, I called my husband, yet again.
“You’re kidding.” He lamented.
“I wish I was.” I answered.
Sometimes reality just stinks.