Yesterday, I spent the entire day outside tending to the garden/yard/fighting weeds. It was glorious, up until I heard a disturbing scuffle near the garage – only to look up and see my sweet, stupid Pup sniffling at something small and gray.
Oh, hello baby opossum. I see you found your way into the garage and you’ve met my terror-of-a-dog.
With much yelling and screaming (PASHA, NO. GO INSIDE. NO. NO! DON’T DO THAT! GO INSIDE! EW! STOP IT! INSIDE!), I finally got the stupid dog to go inside (where she promptly ate John’s sandwich) and observed the baby from afar. Once it stopped playing dead (which, sidenote, can we talk about how this is the worst defense ever? My dog loves to play with dead things!) it became clear that it could only move in a circle, and which point I felt a sense of overwhelming guilt and obligation. Shit.
Me: I wonder how you raise a baby opossum?
John: We are not RAISING IT. We should just put it out of it’s circulating misery.
Me: YOU WANT TO KILL IT?! Clearly the dog takes after you.
Keep in mind that entire conversation occurred via looks-only. Apparently, my eyes are a dead giveaway when I’m considering adopting baby wildlife.
Turns out the University has a wildlife rehab center, so I scooped up the bugger with a shovel, put it into a box, and drove it there. When I handed him over, he was playing dead. Or I suppose it’s likely that he actually died mid-route, but it’s a much better story if he was just playing dead because that way I get to be the hero. Anywho, assuming he didn’t die, he’ll be nursed back to health there until he’s well enough to be released (hopefully far, far, far away from my back yard). Hurray!