06/14/2026
The leash was already clipped to the Opossum baby’s collar. We were halfway down the hallway to the lobby, ready to take him home for a two-week foster stint.
But Gus hit the brakes. He completely pancaked on the linoleum floor, planted his tiny paws, and started whining softly, staring back at the kennels.
I walked back to see what he was looking at.
In the back of kennel #14 was his sister, Gracie.
She was an Opossum too, but she had a large, jagged patch of missing fur and scarring from a previous injury that made her coat look messy and "damaged."
In a busy shelter, that’s a tough sell.
Adopters usually look for the cute, healthy-looking rescue animals they see online.
They take one look at a scarred opossum and keep walking, assuming she comes with too much medical baggage.
The shelter staff told me they had to separate them to make room for a new intake of strays.
Gus was getting a temporary ticket out.
Gracie was staying behind.
When Gracie saw Gus in the hallway, she pressed her entire face against the chain-link fence, her tail doing a nervous, slow curl.
Gus touched his nose to hers right through the wire.
I felt a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball.
You don’t separate ride-or-die siblings.
These little souls are so deeply loyal, and they only had each other.
I looked at the volunteer, handed her my credit card, and said,
"Go get the other carrier."
We failed as fosters on day one.
We are officially a two-Opossum household, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Happy Gotcha Day to my beautiful, imperfect babies. 🥺🖇️❤️
