The Possum Who Chose Joe

I found him half-dead — limp, mangled, barely hanging on. His tiny body was riddled with deep, festering bite wounds, the cruel work of feral cats. Infection had taken hold so fiercely that every breath seemed a labor, every heartbeat a fragile miracle. Without help, he would’ve died.
So I scooped him up and promised him he wouldn’t face the darkness alone.

The next days were a swirl of tiny syringes, crushed pills, warm compresses, and whispered reassurances. I fed him by hand, bathed him when he soiled himself, trimmed his curling nails, even ground up his bitter medicines into little fruity smoothies he’d reluctantly sip. Each day I’d look at him and marvel: You’re still here, little man. Still fighting.

In return, he rewarded me with cautious, delicate trust — and a gentle pink nose that sometimes sought out my hand.

I became his world.
Or so I thought.

When he grew stronger, his personality bloomed. I started taking him everywhere.
We wandered the aisles of Lowe’s, me pushing a cart with him nestled inside on soft towels. He perched on my shoulder while I cast lines at the lake, sniffing the damp breeze like a tiny pirate. He nibbled crumbs from Starbucks pastries, curled up next to me on mossy logs when I went out to write on the Appalachian Trail.

At night, I’d slip him honey-roasted peanuts and whisper stories. Sometimes, we’d both doze off, cheek against soft fur. I cooked him gourmet little meals: Possum Pâté, bits of apple and banana drizzled with almond butter, tiny scrambled eggs with parsley. Watching him eat was a joy that made my heart hurt in the best way.

He was my sweet, spoiled prince.
Or so I thought.

Then there was Joe.

My brother. Disabled, gentle, with a slow, warm way of being that even the shyest creatures seem to sense.

The first time I set the possum down beside Joe on the couch, he gave a little twitch — then melted. Quite literally poured himself across Joe’s lap as if gravity had given up. He burrowed into Joe’s side, let out a deep sigh, and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

It was like watching butter soak into warm bread.

From that day on, they became a singular creature. A nightly ritual began: Joe would settle in with a blanket, and the possum would climb onto his chest, tuck his narrow snout under Joe’s chin, and sigh that long, trembling sigh that says, I am safe. I am home. Sometimes, it looked less like cuddling and more like some sci-fi Vulcan body meld — two separate lives humming in the same quiet frequency.

Now, no matter what I do, how many walks I give him under starlight, how many sweet treats or warm baths, how many times I lean down and kiss that damp pink nose, there is only one ultimate deity in his tiny marsupial world.

Joe.
Joe, who does absolutely nothing — and yet somehow does everything.

I love it. Truly, I do. Because in the end, what more could I wish for the little life I dragged back from the brink, but this?
The deepest of rests. The safest of havens. A love that asks for nothing but being.

So I’ll keep cooking him tiny delicacies, keep buying plush blankets, keep carrying him down trails and across aisles. I’ll keep kissing that silly little nose. And then I’ll hand him over to Joe — and watch them both melt into something quiet and beautiful together.

Because in this small, unlikely family of ours, joy is always doubled when it’s shared. And this possum, who once hovered so close to death, now has two humans utterly wrapped around his tiny, clawed paws.

Lucky us.