Of Pups and Possums

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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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