I share my home with four dogs, three cats and large rabbit. It’s sometimes loud, always messy and crowded at best. For reasons I can’t comprehend, the local wildlife is always trying to move in.

I’ve learned to take it in stride, barely getting excited when I glance down to see a baby possum strolling past. It’s happened at least three times, maybe four. I’ve lost count.

A few nights ago, I was watching t.v., minding my own business, when the littlest dog starting yapping from the other room. It was odd, he’s usually only brave enough to raise a ruckus when he’s buried in his blanket fort. When I didn’t go investigate right away, the oldest of the pack crawled out from under my desk and off to see what the commotion was. When he came back, he was prancing around at my feet, doing his best Lassie impression.

I took the hint and hobbled through the house, muttering to myself along the way, “please don’t be a snake, please don’t be a snake.”

I can’t with the slither critters. I’m not just afraid of them. While driving, if I see one wiggling on the hot asphalt ahead of me, I get nauseous. If I’m weed whacking the yard and a vaguely snake shaped stick moves.. usually because I stepped on it… I have been known to throw the weed whacker and run back into the house.

I’m aware I’m not normal.

When I found the littlest dog, a teacup Yorkie, standing on the back of the couch barking at the floor, I knew what it was. Had it been another baby possum, he would’ve tried to make friends with it.

It wasn’t very big, but what it lacked in girth, it made up for in length. It lifted it’s little head and looked at me, then withdrew back into the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

I’m sure I was a sight to behold, high stepping it back to the bedroom in my Walmart moomoo, purple crocs and dark brown compression socks.

I was giving “Mama’s Family” vibes.

I gathered all the dogs and closed the door, rolling up a towel and cramming it under the door. I don’t know if it would have actually stopped it from coming in, but sometimes playing let’s pretend is the only way to preserve one’s sanity.

Once I regained my composure, sort of, I texted my daughter. She was three hours shy of finishing her shift at her second job, over an hour away. When I realized I was on my own, I worked myself up into a tizzy of a panic attack, hyperventilating, sweating, trying not to throw up.

Thank goodness for medication.

I dozed off in my barricaded room, with all four dogs surrounding me. I woke up to my phone ringing. My daughter had finally gotten my text when she finished work. When she got home, she did her best to convince me that it had left the same way it came in, that she looked and couldn’t find it.

I wasn’t buying it. This had happened before.

The next morning, sure enough, our little friend was back, stretched out from the bookcase to behind the couch. I yelled something about it being back and my daughter being a lying ass lyering lyerson before hoofing it back to my fort.

I heard her talking to it, reasoning with it before relocating it out the back door.

It’s been over a week and I still eye the bookcase suspiciously when I pass by.

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