We had some big time excitement last night involving a night time walk, an opossum, and Samten, our 12 yr old arthritic dog. Half standard poodle, half Tibetan terrier, seen here clearly possessed by the Goa'uld (Stargate reference. Extra points of you get it.) and plotting his next escapade.
Every night this poor old dog and his loving companion go for a quick walk around the property to make sure said dog does his doggie business. Because the mosquitoes view Tom as a walking dinner bell, he prepares for these walks by dressing to impress.
Either that or he's going out to rob the nearest 7Eleven. Probably just a walk. I'm sure they're only out walking.
So last night I am already in bed when the two of them come in and Tom calmly says, "Bad news, he killed an opossum." What?! I jump up and there stands Samten having a pretty realistic Cujo moment with blood on his large canines and white fur around his mouth. Apparently the medication we are giving him for joint pain is working.
As you can imagine, as a pet owner this opens up a whole big can of worry worms. Tom didn't actually see the incident, just came upon the scene of the crime to find Sam standing over the opossum whom is presumed dead. (I should probably mention that we have over an acre of land that Samten roams free on so there is no leash involved in the nightly walks.) Our biggest concern was that Sam had not been bitten. He's up on his shots, but you never know, so we do a quick once over and don't find any wounds. He seems fine. Better than fine, actually, he seems pretty darn pleased with himself.
After we determine that Sam is ok and we clean up the gore it was time to consider the victim and if he really is dead. Either way, we can't let him just lay in the yard and I'm concerned that it's wounded and laying out there alone, so Tom takes a shovel and heads out again. Tom is a good, good man. It is dead. (phew) Sam is an effective hunter and broke its neck quickly. Tom shovels it up and discovers that opossums are a lot heavier than they look. The plan is to take it to the back of the property and heave it across the creek. It's too dark to bury. He makes it almost all the way down to the creek when he drops Mr. P, (have I mentioned it's dark?) right in the middle of a patch of burdock and it takes him considerable time to find it again, get it back on the shovel and deposited where intended. He came back in with an impressive collection of burrs all over him. This, of course, is not even remotely amusing. (he he)
Now none of this was Sam's fault. He was being a dog doing what dogs do, especially dogs bred to hunt. We are just really impressed that he still had it in him, though I have to admit that I'm feeling pretty bad for that opossum. The circle of life can really suck.