Looking for worms or a dead mole,
the opossum didn’t know
what it was getting into
when it scaled the fence
and ambled across the large yard,
the sacred territory of four hounds.
I heard the ruckus at bedtime
and went out to investigate in my pajamas.
My beagles circled
the large rhododendron,
howling in pursuit of prey.
The flashlight illuminated the scared animal
huddled in the crux of two branches,
its pointed nose tight to its chest,
the long tail still,
hanging like a rope.
I assumed it was playing dead.
After I leashed each dog
and dragged them into the house,
the opossum must have resurrected
and scurried away.
It was gone in the morning,
no doubt assured that scrambling up that bush
and feigning death
was its ticket to salvation.
As if salvation could be that easy.
