Boris the dog cornered a possum last night in the back yard. I was no help because I was dancing away from the possum, keeping the flashlight aimed at it, trying to grab the dog as he snapped at the possum.

Finally Boris grabbed it by the back of the neck and I whacked the dog with the flashlight in case he was thinking of shaking the possum and tossing it in my face or crotch. He dropped it and it lay on the grass, limply curled and slack.

Inside I assumed it was dead and that ginger maneuvers with rake and shovel would be needed to convey it to the garbage can. But I also hoped it was playing to its cliched strength. And so it was; I went outside a couple of beers later and it was gone. I searched the back yard in case it was hiding and nursing its wounds, and found no trace of it. It had indeed been faking.

Or else a larger wild creature carried it off. If Boris fucks with a raccoon or similar he is going to get his whiny ass handed back to him.