Last summer, when the possums ate my garden, I began to actively hope for bad things to happen to all of possum-kind. Despite volumes of scientific evidence to the contrary, I decided that Hurricane Irene and the floods that followed would drown the rodents.
Alas, not. In February, we saw not one but two possums cross the road in front of my car on a full-mooned night.
Horrifying. In the aftermath, I began to wish that I had sped up and taken the possums down. Alas, I have neither the speed nor the heart for such an adventure. But I live in Jersey, and someone else was bound to do the dirty deed.