So there I was, letting the dogs out for their last pee of the night and Luke comes running back in, like the good dog he is, and yet Sadie is over on the other side of the yard, sniffing around and being far too interested in something and so I, realizing the potential for a small critter about to be dog-snacked-upon, I tip toed barefoot across the yard, thinking that maybe it was a frog or something, but no.
It was a possum.
A BABY possum.
And I know. I know how people feel about possums. They are god damn terrible to look at sometimes and they have rat tails and they’re ugly and blah blah blah. I know. But I think they’re sort of cute, and really, I mostly just don’t want dead things in my yard and it was far too late for me to bury anything because, no matter what Andrew told me to do with that dead bird that one time, NO, I will not just throw a dead thing over the fence.
I chased Sadie away from the possum and after inspecting it (from a slight distance), decided that maybe it just needed a little space because the thing about possums is that they’re assholes and they’re super good at playing dead so I couldn’t tell if this little possum was actually dead or just possum dead, so I went back in the house, provided an update to the other residents, including Luke who seemed very concerned, and, after about five minutes, I went back outside to check on the possum.
And it still looked dead.
So I stared at it some more. I couldn’t see any blood. It looked ok, minus the fact that it looked dead. So I went back inside again.
Waited five minutes.
Went back out.
And was breathing! But it wasn’t moving. It had pushed itself back up against our fence a little bit, but it was breathing and I, very carefully, tried to move some of the plants that it was behind with my bare foot before realizing that that’s how you get rabies, is by poking not dead possums with your bare toes. I was on the phone by this point, providing a play-by-play of the possum situation and I think I actually yelled at myself about not poking possums and thus, not contracting rabies.
Since the possum wasn’t moving much, I decided to give him a bit more space, sat on the porch talking on the phone and half listening for any rustles in the leaves and then, when I went back again, he was gone. Not a trace.
I realized I was ridiculous somewhere in the middle because it’s a possum that the dogs caught and really, that IS what dogs do, and yet, there I was, totally trying to come up with a plan for how to save this poor beast if he was, in fact, injured, how I would get him in the house and how I would treat his possum wounds and what I would name him and so on and so forth.
So really, what I’m saying, is this is the story of how I almost got a possum.
Although actually, it’s the SECOND story of how I almost got a possum, because apparently when you’re Snow White, you almost end up having possum pets on a fairly regular basis.