Playing possum

OR

How Michigan playing for the NCAA national championship saved a possum’s life

When the dogs go out for bathroom breaks in the evening their usual routine is to leap off the porch and race to the bottom of the back yard, ever hopeful of catching one of the rabbits who regularly visit after dark.  If I walk out with them, I usually catch up with them as they stare hopefully out through the slats of the gate, yearning after any rabbit who just made a mad dash out of the yard to safety. Once they admit that the rabbits have escaped them yet again, the dogs turn their attention to eating the delicacies the rabbits leave behind.  I don’t know what it is about rabbit poop, but it is definitely a favorite treat, so much so that short of an urgent bathroom emergency, eating rabbit poop can take priority over toileting. In fact, it is often not until I head back toward the house to go inside that they say, “But wait, we need to go to the bathroom”. 

A few nights ago, we had a deviation in the routine.  Although the dogs performed their normal leap and race, when I got to bottom of the yard there were no dogs peering hopefully through the gate or munching on rabbit poop.  Flashlight in hand, I spotted them hanging out under a bush near the fence at the other side of the yard.  As I approached, I realized that they had something light colored and furry laying on the ground between them.  Oh no!  Had they finally caught their rabbit? As I got closer, I saw that what they were looking at was a prostrate possum.  Possums are famous for playing dead and over the years, our various dogs have been tricked into leaving many a “dead” possum alone, only to return to find it gone.  But those possums haven’t met Willow.  She has a very strong prey drive, and an even stronger desire to keep me from “stealing” her quarry.  As I approached to try to move the dogs away from the possum, Willow snatched up that “dead” possum and ran as fast as she could to the top of the yard where she put it down and gave me the evil eye.  As I approached her again, she repeated the maneuver, this time retreating back down the yard. 

It was clear I wasn’t going to be able to just walk up to her and take the possum.  Experience told me that even if I could catch her, if she hadn’t already killed it, she would clamp her jaws to keep me from taking it, dooming any chance the possum had of surviving.  Instead I headed to the house for the shake can (soda can with pennies inside).  Poor Willow HATES that can.  I don’t use it often, but when I need to, it works wonders.  Before I could even shake it, she saw it in my hands, dropped the possum and moved away from it.  I have seen possums play dead before, but this possum REALLY looked dead, mouth open, tongue hanging out!  I poked it.  Nothing.  Rolled it over with my foot.  Nothing.  Picked it up by the tail and carried out of the back yard, depositing it safely outside the gate.  Still nothing.  Wondering just how good a possum was at playing dead, I figured time would tell. I went back inside to give the possum some time to get up and walk away, if it could.   The dogs stayed outside to keep an eye on the possum. After a short while they started barking furiously.  I figured that meant the possum was up and making its escape.

After 15 minutes or so, I headed back out to check.  Unexpectedly, the possum was where I had left it, not appearing to have moved at all, except it was now clearly alive because it was breathing rapidly.  But again, poking it, rolling it over and picking it up by its tail yielded no new response.  In addition, its tail was cold and clammy and definitely felt like something already dead. Thinking Willow had delivered a mortal injury and the possum was on its way out, I carried to over by the trash cans to get it further away from the dogs so it could die in peace. Back inside I told Gary that he would need to shoot a mortally injured possum, to put it out of its misery.   Gary was willing but the Michigan-UConn National Championship game was in the last quarter. He wasn’t going anywhere until it was over.  “No problem”, I said, “That possum isn’t going anywhere either”.  We watched the end of the game together.  When the game was over, as Gary contemplated his assigned role as possum finisher offer, I headed outside to see if nature had done his work for him.  I walked over to the trash can to see if the possum was still alive.  Surprise! No possum! I searched around with the flashlight.  Still no possum.  OMG, it really was just playing “dead” or in this case “dying”!  Guess I am as easily fooled as the dogs!  Lucky for the possum, Gary is a big college basketball fan!