Shouldn't…but Do

Lying half-curled on its side in leaf debris, head limp, jaw open in a reflexive curled smile, the full grown opossum was dead.

My two dogs, neither youngsters, danced around it, lunging, grabbing it in their mouths, and throwing it back down. By the time I got there, I surmised my female dog had done what she usually does with rodents, birds, or in this case, a marsupial—a forceful shake and the neck breaks.

Because of the potential for these nighttime encounters, the female goes out on a leash in my fenced backyard, otherwise she is impossible to corral, hunting is her thing. My male dog, her dad, is bigger, but not as twitchy fast.

Once I got my female stuffed in the house, I ran to stop him from pouncing on the body, mouthing it, and throwing it around. A nightmare vision of the opossum returning fully vitalized with angry eyes and pointy teeth gnashing at my dog and my hands ran through my head.

Finally separated, my thoroughly insulted dog was difficult to push in the door, but we got there.

The opossum lay prone, unmoving. I apologized to it and made plans to dispose of the body in the morning, hoping there was truth in the slang, “playing possum.”

Playing dead is common. People do it all the time in relationships, jobs, and in the face of overwhelming aggression. For humans it exacts a serious toll, the burial of honest reaction, hope, potential, and pleasure. But for some, it means survival.

For opossums, it means the same. When I looked 45 minutes later, it was gone.