Oswald, the Almost Famous Opossum

by Sara Katherine Pascoe

  Wonderful, splendid, marvelous—this is IT! Oswald sat up and smoothed his face fur. He heard a woman singing to herself, and somewhere doors opened and closed. The overhead lights came on. Oswald saw her legs as she bustled around, straightening chairs, picking up stray bits of paper.

  Suddenly, she froze.

  She crouched down and blinked at Oswald.

  “What in tarnation?” She looked around, followed the tangle of rope with her eyes, extended a hand toward Oswald, then retracted it.

  “Ah, good morning. Let me introduce myself. I’m Oswald, the opossum of Perry Street, and I’ve come here to do research for my new restaurant.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t speak Animal. Are you hurt? How did you get in here?” the librarian said before she was able to stop herself from speaking, realizing she wouldn’t be able to understand even if the possum did answer her. She shook her head and stood up. “I’ll call Animal Control. Even if I open the door, you’re all tangled up—best to have someone make sure you’re not hurt.”

  She hurried away, leaving Oswald on his own. He could hear her on the phone: “Yes, thank you. If you could please send someone right away, before we open, that would be much appreciated.”

  She returned to Oswald and placed a bowl of water and a granola bar broken in pieces on a paper towel down in front of him. “I looked it up, you’re an omnivore. Thought this would tide you over. Don’t want you getting dehydrated on me,” she said and walked away.

  “Thank you—very kind,” Oswald said, forgetting she didn’t understand Animal.

  About a half hour later, there was a knock at the door. “I’m here for a possum problem,” a man said. Oswald recognized the voice—Darnell Anderson, Prince George’s County Animal Control officer.

  “Good morning, Darnell!” Oswald called out.

  “Is he distressed?” the librarian said, hearing Oswald’s sounds.

  “Oh, Oswald—what have you done now?” Darnell called out then turned to the librarian. “No, trust me—he’s fine. But wait ’til I get a hold of him,” Darnell said.

  The librarian gave a nervous laugh.

  “Don’t worry—I’m just playing.” He pulled a microchip scanner from his pocket and waved it. “If it’s him, we go way back,” Darnell said.

  “Oh.” She laughed again. “Should I show you where he is?”

  “That’s OK,” he said, looking under the tables. “I see him.”

  A few minutes later, Oswald was in the transport cage on the front seat next to Darnell as he drove the van away. He unlatched the cage lid with one hand as he pulled onto Rhode Island Avenue and headed east. Oswald popped up, leaning against the edge of the cage.

  “Did you see what I was reading? Don’t forget to put that in your report. It’s perfect for the weekly newspaper report.”

  “Yeah, perfect.”

  There was a moment of quiet between them. The van rumbled down the road.

  “Might you have any donuts, Darnell?”

  Darnell didn’t answer but drove on.

  “Any lemon custard by chance?” Oswald persisted.

  Darnell shook his head as he made a turn. “You are one high-maintenance marsupial. You do realize we have real animal problems to deal with. Animals in all sorts of bad situations. You’re being selfish with all this nonsense—ever think of that?” Darnell stopped the van at the side of the road. There was a patch of woods with no houses. “This is your stop.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course, I understand, you must go by regulations. And I do appreciate it, this isn’t too far from home.”

  Darnell clipped the cage shut and swung it out of the van. “You know, you’re building quite a record as a nuisance animal. I’d stop now if I were you.”

  “I understand, I really do. You will write this up for your reports, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Darnell placed the cage on the grass, opened the side panel, and made a sweeping gesture. “Show time.”

  When Oswald didn’t budge, Darnell gently shook him out of the cage and went back to the van.

  “Good to see you. Thanks again. Try to remember to spell my name correctly, Oswald with an ‘s,’” Oswald said to Darnell’s back.

  Darnell glanced over his shoulder, then hopped in the van and drove off.

  Oswald sniffed the air, looked for the position of the sun, and waddled off toward home. “Splendid, marvelous. I’m sure to make the news.”

  4

  POSSUM PROVERBS

  It took Oswald the rest of the day and most of the next to walk home. He got lost a few times, but reassured himself with the old possum proverb, “A possum lost is a possum who doesn’t know where he is.” Along the route, he found two slices of pizza with the perfect amount of mold on them—delicious.

  It was Wednesday evening when he got home: the day the Animal Watch column came out in the newspaper. He couldn’t wait to see himself in print: “Possum Proves Marsupial Minds are Magnificent,” or maybe, “Brilliant Opossum Discovered in Library.” He vibrated with excitement.

  He squeezed under the front gate, climbed onto the front porch, and scrambled onto an old chair next to the window. The light inside houses was always so golden yellow. Oswald wondered if humans saved up sunshine and piped it through their lamps.

  Joey had a book open on his lap, but stared ahead at the flickering television. Melvin slept next to him, his sides going in and out like a furry accordion.

  Oswald gave their secret knock, rat-a-tat-TAT.

  Joey smiled and started to open the window but was interrupted by his mother.

  Just my luck. Why doesn’t she go do something useful—like make lasagna? Oswald tried to squeeze through. Joey and his mom snapped their heads around at the noise.

  “Joey . . . you are not going to let that critter in, are you?” His mother looked annoyed but was trying not to smile at the same time.

  Oswald poked his snout through the cracked open window. “Good evening, Joey. It’s good to be back. Might you get the newspaper for us? It’s Wednesday, you know.”

  Joey nodded ever so slightly to Oswald, given his mother was so against this boy-possum friendship. Then he said to his mother, “Don’t worry, I won’t let him in.” Like most people, Miss Ann didn’t understand Animal.

  “At least not while I’m looking, right? Now stop fooling around and finish your homework. Did you write that story? It’s getting late.”

  “Yeah, it’s done. I wrote a poem instead—it could be shorter.”

  “A poem? I didn’t know you wrote poetry. May I read it?” His mother smiled for real this time.

  “Um, I already put it in my backpack.” That was the last thing Joey wanted—to have to endure his mother gushing over some dumb poem. “Anyway, it’s Wednesday, Mom. Oswald needs to see Animal Watch.” Joey said, unable to hold back his real intentions any longer. He dashed past his mother onto the porch.

  “Honestly, Joey.” Miss Ann stood in the doorway. Melvin wove out through her legs.

  Mr. Edwards, an older man with a face like a kind and wise hound dog, sat reading on the front porch next door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Edwards,” Joey’s mother said. “Do you still have today’s paper? Joey wants to borrow it.”

  “Let me check.” Mr. Edwards pushed up from his creaky chair and opened his front door. Sounds of a beginner keyboard player floated out.

  “Lillian?” The keyboard sounds stopped. A few seconds later, Mrs. Edwards, a short woman with a halo of frizzy gray hair, and Zola, a huge, whiskery dog, came out.

  “You done with today’s paper?” Mr. Edwards said.

  The dog ambled back into the house.

  Joey laughed to himself, remembering Oswald asking if Mrs. Edwards’s typically bright clothing was some sort of signaling system. Joey was glad she didn’t get insulted when Oswald complimented her on her “nice round shape.”

  The big canine returned with the paper in her mouth.

  “Thanks, Zola. Go on, take it to
Joey,” Mr. Edwards said.

  Zola padded over to Miss Ann’s house.

  “All right now, Dr. Dolittle,” Joey’s mother said. “When you’re done with your little meeting, I want you washed up and in bed in fifteen minutes. I have to leave a little before you tomorrow, early shift.”

  “Don’t forget, we’re here if you need anything, Joey,” Mr. Edwards said.

  “Thanks, Mr. Edwards,” Joey said.

  Miss Ann went inside.

  Joey and the animals gathered round. Oswald, on the porch table, danced from paw to paw to paw to paw in what Joey called his happy dance.

  “What does it say? Is it a headline?”

  “Get off the paper, Oswald. I can’t see,” Joey said.

  Oswald backed up and tried to hold still.

  “Well?” Oswald cleared his throat. “How many possums break into the library?”

  Joey skimmed the column: “Owl perched on a computer. . .ferret on a bus. . .”

  Joey read on, but there was no mention of Oswald or his latest escapade.

  Oswald’s head and tail drooped. Melvin stretched, jumped off the chair, and gave his front paw a lick. “Better luck next time, Oz.” He sauntered off the porch to the back of the house. Zola went home to the Edwardses’ and Joey walked to the door.

  “Good night, Oswald.” The door closed behind Joey with an empty click. The night was quiet except for the sound of those infernal crickets.

  When the last light went out in Joey’s house, Oswald got a funny feeling in his stomach. He shivered, although it wasn’t cold. He sighed and waddled off the porch and down the side of the house toward his home, an old wooden crate under the back deck. It was nice enough, with a red sweatshirt of Joey’s folded into a bed, an upside-down plastic food container for a table, and a number of odds and ends, or “found objects” as Oswald called them, for decoration.

  Suddenly, an idea swooshed into his marsupial brain like a small propeller plane buzzing a crowd. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He trotted up the steps onto the deck and squeezed through the cat flap. The big armchair inside looked like the perfect place for a nap, but first, he needed Melvin’s help.

  5

  A BACKWARD MARCH TOWARD FAME

  Melvin, who had already settled in for a snooze, yawned, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.

  “I don’t have a lot of time. Can you look up something for me on the Internet?”

  Melvin stretched and leaped onto the desk in one graceful swoop. He turned on the computer. “What’s the plan, Sam?”

  “It’s Oswald. Although some beings call me Oz, I do prefer Osw—”

  “It’s a saying, man.” Melvin stared out the window for a moment. “What do you want me to look up?”

  “I want to know if opossums are known for their poetry.”

  “Poetry? You are a piece of work.” Melvin shook his head then tapped away on the keyboard.

  “Fish carcass!” Melvin looked frustrated and typed some more. He must have been making mistakes. “Hairball!” Melvin said.

  “No need to be coarse.”

  Melvin took a deep breath. Then he turned back to the keyboard and typed with one claw extended from each paw. The computer screen lit Melvin’s large, handsome head. His whiskers glowed like fiber optics.

  “You’re in luck. Opossums are not famous for their poetry.” Melvin gave an odd smile.

  “Fabulous! I think Miss Ann likes poetry.” Oswald clapped his front paws. “Might you be so kind as to get a pen and paper for me? Please?”

  “Sure, man.” Melvin pushed a few pieces of paper and a pen off the desk.

  “Thank you, Melvin. You’re a good friend.”

  Oswald started to write, but his pen kept poking holes through the paper into the carpet. After a few more tries, he dragged the paper onto the dining table in the next room. Melvin carried the pen to him in his mouth without being asked.

  Writing on the table worked much better. There was a moment of relative quiet; the only sounds were the pen scratching on paper and the summer’s night orchestra of frogs and insects muffled through the windows. A train whistle sounded in the distance.

  “Stop staring at me, I can’t concentrate,” Oswald told Melvin, who stood up, turned around twice, and re-curled himself in the opposite direction.

  Oswald wrote some more.

  “Please desist. You’re sending bad vibrations—interfering with my brain waves.”

  Melvin sat up. “Not exactly a tsunami.”

  “What are you talking about?” Oswald said.

  “Nothing. But I think I see a solution.” Melvin trotted over to a blue plastic laundry basket on the floor.

  “I bet the laundry basket would protect you from my stares and vibes.”

  Oswald clapped his front paws in agreement.

  “And I know just the solution to protect those brain waves of yours.”

  The two worked together, tipping the basket and removing the few items, then hauling it from floor to chair, and chair to table. Then they flipped the basket over Oswald. This made a bright-blue plastic slatted hut over the struggling poet. Oswald started writing again, and Melvin jumped off the table and trotted off into the kitchen.

  He returned with a fork in his mouth, jumped on the table and placed it on top of the upturned laundry basket.

  Oswald stopped his writing, which was now going very well. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Melvin explained that if there were metal objects on top of the upturned basket, they would absorb any “bio-electrical forces” that might be interfering with Oswald’s brain waves and his brilliance. This sounded technical and complicated to Oswald, which convinced him it must be true. So Oswald returned to his writing while Melvin opened kitchen drawers and cupboards, carrying silverware and any metal objects he could manage.

  Soon, there was a large pile of knives, forks and spoons, small pot lids, old keys, a rusty hinge, a broken watch, an empty cat-food can, and other odds and ends on top of the upside-down basket. Confident his brain waves were properly protected, Oswald wrote speedily, going backward with the pen in his back paw, covering page after page with scratchy marks. Meanwhile, Melvin slept in the armchair in the study, wearing another one of those odd smiles.

  6

  BUSTED

  Joey was dreaming of a screeching, angry bird.

  “Joseph Carlton Jones!” his mother yelled. “What on earth are you playing at?” He tumbled down the stairs in his pajamas and skidded to a stop next to his mother. There was the possum on the dining room table, under an upside-down laundry basket, topped with what looked like every kitchen utensil in the house. Underneath, Oswald crouched on a bed of papers, shifting from paw to paw.

  “I’ve had enough of you and your critters, Joey.” His mother seemed thoroughly vexed this time. “You know I have an early shift today—is that what this is about? My not cooking you breakfast?”

  Joey shook his head and looked down. “No, Mom. I didn’t do this. Honest.”

  “You didn’t do this?” She studied her son’s face. “You look like you believe it, too. So this creature did it? What—with Melvin’s help?”

  “Excuse me, but I find the word ‘creature’ offensive,” Oswald said.

  “Not now,” Joey whispered out of the side of his mouth to Oswald.

  Ann shook her head and looked at her watch. “I’m going to have to call Animal Control and get this possum relocated. I know it’s been hard for you since Bradyn moved away. But you’ve got to make some friends—human ones. And this creature needs to be with other animals. Truly.”

  “Oh, Mom—please don’t call Animal Control! It’ll mess with his head. He doesn’t like new places. He’s shy,” Joey begged. “I promise I won’t ever, ever let him in again.”

  “Mm-hmm. I thought so.” She stood with her arms crossed. “So you did let him in.”

  “No, ma’am, not this time . . . maybe before.”

  “Too late, I’ve heard
enough. I’ll see if Mr. or Mrs. Edwards can wait with you for Animal Control. I’ve got to go to work.”

  She dialed a number on her phone. Joey could hear the recorded announcement about which number to press and how “this message may be recorded.”

  “I should make a stew out of you.” Miss Ann glared at Oswald, then marched outside.

  Joey leaned in toward Oswald. “Now you’ve done it. You’re going to be relocated.”

  Oswald clapped his forepaws. “Oh, this is splendid. She’s calling Animal Control—that’s marvelous!” His black eyes shone.

  “Oh, man. This isn’t good, Oswald. You’re supposed to help me with my science project this weekend, remember?”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not due until the Wednesday after next. We have plenty of time, good fellow. And don’t worry, this is Darnell’s patch and he won’t relocate me.” Oswald paused, looked serious. “Now Joey, this is important. Make sure Darnell sees my poetry. This will surely get me into Animal Watch.”

  Joey lifted the laundry basket a few inches, careful not to dislodge all the metal things, and slid out the wad of papers. They were covered with jagged marks. “This mess?”

  “That’s no way to speak to your elders, Joey.”

  “But Oswald, you’re only one year old.”

  Mr. Edwards stood next to Joey in the dining room. Animal Control Officer Darnell Anderson clicked the cage shut and shoved a microchip scanner back in his pocket. Oswald peered out through the wire-mesh window.

  “Yup, this guy’s got quite a record. We only microchip them if we’ve been called for them at least three times, and this one . . . well, let’s just say he’s a frequent flyer.” Darnell chuckled. He took out a digital logbook from another pocket and swiped through some pages. “The initial caller, Ms. Ann Jones—is that your mom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see she requested relocation. We can do that.”

  Joey looked stricken despite Oswald’s reassurance a few minutes ago.

  “Wait, these papers. It looks like he was trying to write a message or something.” Joey held them out to Darnell. Mr. Edwards and Darnell exchanged glances before Darnell took them.