Last night before bed I let the dogs out to do their foul things in the back yard. When they didn't come in when I called, out I went with the flashlight. And of course they were taking turns carrying a possum around. Why are my dogs such kill-crazy bastards? Thankfully they came inside, sans possum or protest, when I called them this time.

A half-hour later I went out with a garbage bag, assuming that the routine established with the first possum kill would be followed. Not this time; the needle-toothed varmint was still where Vinnie had dropped him, but was obviously alive. And, of course, now playing dead again. I said screw it and went to bed.

This morning I assumed the possum would have possibly shifted a few feet down the lawn, in its hell-bent run for safety. Some latent survival instinct, however, must have boosted it right out of the yard. Millions of years of evolution has hit a brick wall, represented by a pair of dumb domesticated house dogs.