D.O.P.-T.

[weofodthignen]

Last night shortly before midnight the dog was outside and started barking. She was under the plum tree. I got my flashlight, which I had been using to flash at the dark-colored pieces after putting them into the jigsaw to discern whether they actually fit. I squeezed my way between the low-hanging branches, where the leaves were still dripping from the evening's watering, and in the uneven cone inside, found her snapping at the back of the trunk. I got over there and shone the light down and sure enough, there was a small possum with its body folded in the corner between the trunk and the fence. Its mouth was open and full of bits from the ground, its fur was horrible greyish white and pinkish grey colors, and milky fluid seemed to be coming out of its ear. It didn't seem to be hissing, and wasn't biting back as the dog tried to get a good chomp in on the back of its head. I found a stout stick lying there and poked it, to no avail. But it was breathing. So I reached under the branch between me and the dog, got her by the collar, and slowly extracted her, backing out from under the tree and then marching her into the kitchen, where I left a small trail of leaves. Half an hour later I went out again with one of the tougher kind of garbage bags in my pocket in case it had not been playing possum, and this time I got my t-shirt hung up on twigs getting under the tree. No possum, and I shone the torch up and down the base of the fence in case it had crawled off to expire. Mr. Possum lives to chew my plants another day.