To the Opossum from Last Night
Dear Opossum From Last Night,
It’s been 23 hours since my family and I witnessed your demise. It’s been 23 hours since I’ve been able to look at my best friend, even though he’s in the same room as me. For that amount of time, I’ve hated my dog for what he did to you. Suddenly, I don’t hate him anymore. Instead, I pity you. You see, I finally took the time to notice some things. Those things really don’t work in your favor.
Last night, you met my best friend Bowser. I know that the whole “opossum” thing is to play dead and sometimes, that is what you should do and it can work to your benefit. However, last night, what you should have done was fall over and… laugh. You should have reached out your cute little hand and pointed your finger at Bowser and just laughed hysterically. I know you heard him coming. He’s so fat that the deck shakes when he walks on it. He’s detached the stairs nearly completely off the deck simply by bounding his fat ass up and down them for all these years. The act alone of just heaving his lard butt off of the couch and walking to the door is enough to cause him to have labored breathing and wheezing that could rival that of any asthmatic or Biggest Loser competitor. His 15-year-old body creaks and cracks and sometimes, it sounds like his toothpick legs will snap. How did you not hear him?
He’s the slowest creature ever. Sometimes, I want to strap him to the back of a turtle so he can get back to the house before it’s been long enough that I need to wax my upper lip. Standing at the door and calling him is a nightmare. It takes 10 minutes for him to make it from the tree to the stairs and to be honest, that’s about three feet. in that amount of time you could have called a taxi, went to the bar and had enough to drink that you would have ended up making some poor decisions. Instead of doing that, you what? Oh, yes. You waited around long enough for lard ass to make it from the deck to wherever it was that he found you. How did you not have enough time to get away?
Just how did he find you? The dog can’t see worth a damn. If he could, surely he would be able to catch one of the 15 pieces of steak that we throw at him. He just watches and waits for them to hit him in the eye and then fall to the floor. Once they are there, the doofus can’t find them. He’ll be standing on top of a piece and looking at us like we teased him. You blend in with the night! You dummy! Were you standing out there with flares, directing him like air traffic control?
Once he got to you, what happened? I still can’t figure out that part. I mean, I know that you ended up in his mouth, but how? He has the reflexes of an old lady with a walker. Hell the old lady may be faster. Did you introduce yourself and shake hands? The only thing I can figure is that you had to have been suicidal. Sure, it’s completely plausible that you pulled a piece of lattice from the deck and you took your own furry life with it. Bowser just carried you in the house in an attempt to save you. I’m going with that. It makes more sense than to believe that my elderly, obese, slow, cancer-ridden dog killed you with his one snaggle-tooth. I’ve seen meth addicts with more teeth than this dog. Not possible for him to kill you. He’s never killed anything but a cheeseburger.
You ruined my night, you damn opossum. I had just cleared three boys from the bathroom and I finally was going to end my week long bout with constipation. Just as I thought my day was improving, I heard my kids screaming in fear. I assumed a mass murderer had broken in and he had gutted Larry in front of them. Before I could get off the toilet and grab the baseball bat I keep behind the door, Paris burst into the bathroom screaming, “Bowser has a possum, Bowser has a possum!”. I barely had time to cover my pooter before he saw me. Thanks for traumatizing my already dramatic middle child.
I walked out of the bathroom in stealth mode, fearful that this invader was alive and pissed off. I was ready to push the kids down and run if I had to. Survival of the fittest, or in my case, the smartest. As I crept around the corner and used Paris as a shield, I found you there in my dog’s mouth as he lay on his dog bed in the living room. He looked like he does every time he plays with a toy. He just held you in his mouth as blood dripped all over everywhere. If I weren’t still constipated, I would have likely shit myself.
Larry was a super hero and he got Bowser to finally put you down long enough that he could use the dust pan to put you gently in the trash bag. Of course, I wasn’t in there. I had already ran from the room in hysterics, crying like a 13-year-old at a Justin Bieber concert.
I haven’t been able to forget what happened. Last night, I dreamed that you crawled up the stairs and snuck into my room and stabbed me and Larry while we slept. All day, I’ve been mad at Bowser and I’ve mourned your death.
While ago, I got to thinking. It changed everything. Now, I want to thank you. You see, I’ve been asking myself just how long Bowser will be able to fight the cancer and old age. I found a new mass on him last week and I’ve been too scared to make an appointment at the vet. You showed me that my old dog still has some fight left in him. While I’m sad that your life ended, I am forever thankful that you showed The Bowz what it was like to feel young again. You also gave me hope.
Forever your crappy friend,