So I grabbed a long-handled shovel, the only weapon at hand, and prepared myself for Option 2. I gathered myself for the work any chicken farmer worth her salt must have to do all the time. I took a deep breath and brought the sharp head of the shovel down on the possum’s neck as hard as I could. Slam. This did almost nothing. The possum hissed, showed me its mouthful of dripping teeth, and emitted one of the rottenest scents I have ever smelled. I hit it again. Wham. The possum was wounded, but still very much alive. I had to ram the blade of the shovel into the head of that animal about 30 times before it actually died. My pulse was racing. I was hot, sweating, shaking and exhausted from the effort.