Possum
Today Tom and I rescued a possum. I looked out the glass door at the field, and there he was, limping along very slowly. We decided to capture him and bring him to the vet school because his back leg looked really screwed up and even if the vet school decided not to heal him, a quick death there would be better than being mauled and eaten by neighborhood dogs.

I went out into the field with a laundry basket while Tom found a cardboard box. My plan was to pretend that I was going to walk non-chalantly past the possum, suddenly change direction, and toss the laundry basket over him. I didn't know what to expect from him and so I was cautious.

When I suddenly changed direction and came at him, his eyes slowly rolled back in his head, his lips curled up in a deathly grin, and he slowly toppled over. I faltered; had my approach scared the last of the life out of him? Had he been so frightened that he just had a heart attack and keeled over dead?

Then I suddenly remembered what everyone knows but not too many get to see in person: possums play possum when they are threatened and in a position where they can't run away. Boy, was he good at it too. He looked really dead. I placed the laundry basket over him and waited for Tom to bring the cardboard box. When he did, I put on a pair of gardening gloves, reached down, and scooted the possum into the box. He was completely limp and the expression on his face did not change.

In the car, I peeked in at him a few times. His death grin had faded and he looked far cuter and more alive. I fell in love with him, mangled leg and all.

At the hospital, they told us that they get two to three possums a week. If they're not in too bad shape, they fix 'em up and release them into a protected area. As we left, I said to him, "You were my possum for about twenty minutes. I love you. Goodbye."