Great-granddaddy W.T. Greenberry purely doted on possums. My great-grandmother, however, hated, abhorred, and despised possums, with their little beady eyes and their long old tails scraping around through the house. W.T. brought so many possums into the house that great-grandmother would open the back door and call Rich Man and Poor Man, the hunting dogs, into the house to chase the possums out, and they’d raise a ruckus all through the house, chasing possums up the draperies and under tables and up the bed posts. And Great-granddaddy W.T.? He’d grab anything he could find, a broom or a rifle or an umbrella, and go chasing the dogs and leaping over chairs and devonettes and yelling.
“Run, possums, run! Run, little possums!” W.T. implored the scattering possums as he tore through the house in a state of mad panic.
“Ye bastards! Ye cursed bastards! Great sons of bitches!” he bawled at the hounds, warping at the big old clumsy dogs, whacking them across their heads until they ran back out the door, whining and yelping.
Then W.T. would yell out the back door, “Hounds from Hell! Murderous mongrels! Keep away from my marsupials!”
