Once upon a time (I am just starting it that way because I like it, not because it is made up.)
there was a little black dog who preferred the company of others when he went outside after dark, either Mom with a flashlight or one of the grown-up Bassets.
So this particular night he and Conley and Mom and the flashlight went out for a routine potty break, and instantly, right off the get-go, Conley's nose went down and he began ahrooing and tore off into the semi-dark (it was early.) Doc, the black puppy, tore off with him, without knowing what was going on.
Mom and the flashlight brought up the rear.
And there, hidden behind a straw target next to the firetrap we call the summerhouse, was a large possum.
(photo from Google)
I do not like Possums. I shooed the dogs into the house and waited and 20 minutes later he was still there, hissing. Oh yeah?
So I got a kennel leash. The kind made of plastic rope that have a sliding loop at the end.
And after a little song and dance routine, I slipped it over his gnarly little neck, and I popped him out into the yard and escorted him to the gate where it ocurred to me that I was stuck since the gate falls apart if you open it. (It doesn't get a lot of use for this reason.)
I paused, kind of momentarily trying to think when the Possum took matters into his own paws and shot under the gate, yanking the leash out of my hands.
(Well come on, now. I didn't think he'd be that strong.)
I ran through the house, scattering dogs and rugs and husbands every which way but by the time I got out front the Possum was gone.
Now I have to deal with the thought that if the leash doesn't just shake loose like they usually do, the Possum could be hung up someplace strangling or starving. I look for that bright blue leash all over the neighorhood but I haven't seen it.
The dogs check that spot every time they go outside.
I have not seen the Possum again.
I feel awful.
