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Animal magnetism. Some of us have it and some of us don't. It's the luck of the draw, and at the risk of sounding immodest, I drew to an inside straight on this one. I've got animal magnetism in spades.

In my life, I have been stalked by an amorous pigeon - there were witnesses - mocked by contentious squirrels and had my head pecked by a deranged blackbird. But nothing compares to my first magnetic experience, which occurred when I was a teenager.

Back then, my bedroom was on the second floor and my parents' was on the first. My older sisters were gone, leaving nervous Nelly me to sleep upstairs alone. One night I awoke with a start to the sound of heavy, plodding footsteps on the roof. Had Santa, weary of battling winter storms, started delivering presents in June, I wondered. The footsteps paced back and forth directly above my bed for several minutes, sounding less like jolly old St. Nick and more like homicidal ex-convict St. Nick with each deliberate step. Completely unnerved, I bolted out of bed and fled to the safety of the first-floor guest room across the hall from my parents.

The next morning, my mother pooh-poohed my fears that a psycho off-season Santa was stomping around on the roof.

"It's probably a couple of chipmunks," she said dismissively.

"Yes, Weight Watchers drop-out chipmunks, wearing steel-toed boots," I replied sarcastically. "It's clearly an axe murderer, and I am not sleeping up there."

For the next week, I inhabited my room as usual until bedtime when I would then retire to the security of the downstairs guest room. One evening, well before the witching hour had struck, my parents went out and I sat alone at my bedroom vanity, peering into my Clairol Lighted Make-Up Mirror. Suddenly, I had the eerie feeling that I was not alone. I looked up from the mirror, turned my head and - dun, dun, duuun - came face to face with my stalker, one fat, wiry-haired, particularly unattractive possum. His long, fleshy nose was pressed hard against my window and his beady eyes were trained unflinchingly on me. I stood frozen for a moment and then ran downstairs, screaming like a banshee.

Thus began my summer of terror at the hands - well, paws - of the peeping Tom possum. He not only continued to spy on me and lope around the roof at night, he sought me out in person, once practically hurling himself in front of my car and another time positioning himself between me and my front door. It was horrifying, and I suffered from PTSD (Possum Traumatic Stress Disorder) for quite some time.

Now 40 years later, flashbacks of that disturbing period of my life have returned. The other night my dog Harper was in the backyard when he began barking wildly, frantically, like he'd never barked before. I opened the door and repeatedly commanded him to stop. He not only ignored me, he ramped the barking up a notch. Frustrated, I grabbed a flashlight and went outside to retrieve him. Just as I grabbed hold of his collar, I sensed movement atop the fence behind me. I swung the flashlight around and caught a flash of beady eyes and fleshy nose receding into the darkness. I yanked Harper's collar and hightailed it back inside the house.

"What was it?" my husband asked as I turned the dead bolt on the back door.

Barely able to speak for shaking, I simply replied, "Well, it was no chipmunk."

Animal magnetism in spades. Trust me, it's a hand better left undealt.

- Lee Gaitan

Lee Gaitan is the author of two books, Falling Flesh Just Ahead and My Pineapples Went to Houston - Finding the Humor in My Dashed Hopes, Broken Dreams and Plans Gone Outrageously Awry. She also has written a chapter in the bestselling book, The Divinity of Dogs. Her work has appeared on The Huffington Post, Better After 50, Mothers Always Write, Midlife Boulevard, Fab Over Fifty and The Good Men Project. She lives in suburban Atlanta with her husband and dog and blogs at Don't Just Bounce, Bounce Back. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.