Most people know that I am somewhat… obsessive.
I like answers. I am persistent. Some might say diligent. Most would echo Forrest Gump and simply say I’m a pain in the buttocks.
Either way, I’ve always been driven to get to the bottom of things.
So Reiko’s recent flea disaster left me curious about the likely cause. Fleas generally don’t wear GPS trackers, so conclusive proof was impossible, but I figured a little detective work was in order.
I started thinking about vectors: how fleas move from one place to another and what conditions encourage relocation. After all, if I were a fat flea (already 50% accurate), I wouldn’t abandon my free all-you-can-eat buffet without a good reason.
Since the inside of the house appeared flea-free, the vector had to be outside.
I considered what regularly moves through our secure backyard. There are occasional feral cats, far too many squirrels (meaning one or more), and probably the odd rat or mouse. But the prime suspect was… Possy or one of her relatives.
Online research revealed that opossums are world-class flea transporters. They are essentially aircraft carriers with tails.
Armed with this information, I headed to the section of fence where I knew opossums liked to hide.
Years ago, Possy had maintained a den there and even raised a passel of babies. Yes, “passel” is apparently the proper term for a group of opossums. I thought it possible that another opossum, accompanied by its scratch of fleas, had taken up residence. Yes, “scratch” is apparently the proper term for a group of fleas. Look it up.
What I found was horrifying.
As I approached the corner of the fence, my nose detected a familiar odor.
The odor.
The one that makes the CSI television detectives wrinkle their noses just before discovering a corpse in the library with the candlestick. On Mariska Hargitay it’s a cute nose wrinkle. On me, not so much.
Dead-body smell. As the kids say, “If you know, you know.” And I knew.
There was only one thing to do. I removed several fence boards and discovered the remains of a recently deceased opossum. A juvenile male about the size of your average house cat.
Good Lord.
There were maggots. There were flies. There were things that should never be discussed over dinner.
I pride myself on a rock solid stomach and not being easily rattled by unpleasant sights, but this was a near thing. The worst part were the hollow, sightless eyes staring at me. We’re talking gag a maggot level of bad.
And what a fragrance.
I named him Porky. It seemed respectful.
It struck me mildly humorous that I used Porky’s tail to pull his remains out from the fence. Opossum tails are pretty sturdy, doncha know. Thus suspended, Porky was lowered into a trash bag and carried to an ignominious grave – the trash can.
Afterward came the equally glamorous work of cleaning and disinfecting the interior of the fence.
I’ll spare you the details except to say that the Environmental Protection Agency might have had concerns about my chemical combinations. For now, the fence remains partially open to air out and receive the sun’s natural cleansing powers. I deployed Reiko’s doggy gate horizontally to block access to the area from inquisitive Mauzers.
As an added bonus, my infamous downwind neighbor gets a complimentary day or two of gradually diminishing L’Eau de Dead Opossum drifting toward his bedroom window.
So the mystery is solved. Probably.
My working theory is that Porky the Flea-laden Opossum crawled into the fence and died. Well, that much is pretty obvious. My guess is that he accidentally ingested some rat poison, which people around here use with alarming enthusiasm and questionable judgment.
When an animal dies and the body temperature drops, the fleas abandon ship. They gather nearby and wait patiently for the next suitable host.
Perhaps a small white deaf dog looking for a place to poo. A particularly tasty small white deaf dog. Cesar-fed. The moment she wandered by, they launched.
From the fleas’ perspective, it was Golden Corral.
So there you have it.
Case closed.
You may now call me Clouseau.
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