Mr. Banks and Frank Mundus Go Fishing

Frank Mundus

This piece first appeared in the March 2, 2022 issue of the  Fredericksburg Standard.

My first next-door neighbor in Fredericksburg was Lilly. She was 89 years old, lived by herself, and had no children. She was standoffish at first, but by the time her 90th birthday came about, she considered me a friend.

Lilly would entertain my questions about life in Fredericksburg 50 or 60 years earlier with great stories. She enjoyed watching my daughter play in the yard, and often gave my family fresh eggs from her backyard chicken coop.

One day, she reluctantly asked me for help. Lilly asking for assistance of any kind was extremely unusual as she prided herself on being completely self-sufficient.

Lilly told me that something had been getting into her coop and asked me to trap and kill whatever it was. She explained that she just didn't have mobility to set a trap nor deal with catching vermin anymore.

I agreed, pulled a livetrap from her antique shop of a garage, and set it in her coop. Two days later, I caught the cutest baby possum you've ever seen.

Well, cute as far as disgusting marsupial tree rats go, I suppose. I donned a pair of leather gloves, yanked the little vermin from the elongated cage, and, as he was so adorable, had my then-wife take a picture of me with him. This was a mistake. A big mistake.

A week or two later, I awoke to find my torso had become a spiderweb of tiny red whelps that itched like the devil and the sheets that I'd slept upon slicked in some sort of fluid that had oozed from the lesions I'd scratched open during the night. I was utterly disgusting.

I wisely went to my doctor. I told her what was going on then took off my shirt to reveal the topographical map of misery upon me. She immediately backed away in disgust.

“You have scabies,” she said.

“Scabies?! I thought only, like, White Trash people got scabies,” I rebuked.

My doctor nodded in the affirmative.

I laughed at her honesty then answered a slew of questions. Together, the doc and I determined that I had gotten scabies from holding that miserable pouch-having evolutionary throwback of a rat.

After prescribing me some cream guaranteed to cure my ailment, the good doc explained to me the ins and outs of Sarcoptes scabiei.

Scabies are tiny mites that live and feed within the flesh of their host. The non-human type of scabies generally has no interest in humans unless there is no other food source available.

Scabies is often found in abandoned buildings, chicken coops (BINGO!), and barns where they lay in wait for the next free meal.

Possum, or varmint scabies (the group I became personally acquainted with), are unable to live in humans very long but make the most out of the time they do. Although they burrow and feed under the skin, it's their excrement that is deposited under the skin that causes an itchy reaction.

Yes, this means I had parasitic organisms ripping through my skin feeding and defecating!

Treatment is in the form of a prescribed cream and takes less than 24 hours to work.

The best way to avoid scabies is to avoid the dank, deserted places in which they live. And not pick up baby possums. Yeah. That was really stupid.

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