Well that was fucked up.

The last thing you want to hear when you let your dog out to pee is a *thud* followed by a desperate squeaking.

My bull terrier, Sparkles, got a possum ._.

As soon as I got her away from it - relativley quickly - I went to see if the prone marsupial was alright. It was still breathing, though it stopped when I knelt down to inspect it. It was a brushtail- it's big brown eyes stared vacantly into space, it's little pink hands all curled up. I moistened the back of my hand and held it under his snout to see if I could feel it's breath, but there was nothing. I presumed he was dead.

By this time Dad had woken up and was thoughroly disturbed by the scene, so it was up to me to dispose of the ex-possum. (I've never even cleaned up after my dogs.) Unfortunatly when I approached it after grabbing some plastic bags, it seemed to be breathing again. Once again, when I approached it, the breathing ceased. (DUUUUUUUUUR I guess that's where the term "playing possum" comes from hurrrrrrrr durrrrr.) I stood there for what seemed like a lifetime trying to work up the courage to decapitate it with a shovel or something in order to put the fatally wounded little darling out of its misery, but I just couldn't. I prodded it a few times and poked it's eye with a stick- no reaction. That's good. Well no, it's horrible when any animal dies, but at least it's suffering was over.

I don't think I'll be forgetting the feeling of picking up a limp, still-warm possum and wrapping it in plastic to be binned (frantically apologising to it the whole time) any time soon :(

The worst part is, if I hadn't been awake with a god-awful cough instead of having an early night to make my 8am start tomorrow (eh, today) I wouldn't have been awake to let Sparkles out  ;_;