Sunday, June 03, 2012

Of Pups and Possums



His glance flicked over her, and he grunted dismissively. “Not
much to you.”
Sophia drew herself up to her full height. “I have it on good
authority I am worth three opossums!”
A twitch dented the corner of [the Indian's] mouth and he
looked at Jack. “You pay three possums for this?”
“At the time it seemed like a good idea,” Jack said, putting
down his rifle and brushing off his own clothes.
--The Bride and The Buccaneer (winner, FCRW Beacon Award and the subject of a three minute lecture at Harvard University on "How the barter system approximates commodity currency in a market economy.")

My elderly dachshund treed a possum last night.  I knew this because around 11 p.m. there was a frantic barking from the backyard, something along the lines of, "OMG! OMG! I caught supper! Quick, mom, bring the rifle!"

When I went out to investigate, the dog was at the base of a huge oak, her front paws planted firmly on it, tail wagging furiously as she barked at something up in the branches.  I couldn't see it, but I heard an angry hissing from above, something addressed to the doxie along the lines of, "You crazy b*tch! If I come down from here I'm going to claw your face off!"

Rather than shoot the possum, I gathered the old lady dog into my arms, praised her for being such a good hunter, and took her inside for a well-deserved treat and her bedtime meds.  No doubt she dreamed that night of her glory days, when she had teeth, and the possums ran scared.




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