The dog killed an opossum last night. At least, he showed up at the front door with a baby opossum drooping from his jaw.
The neighbor kid and I used a rake to scoop the animal onto a a shovel, and I walked him around the front yard to the City-issued trash bin. The opossum went in there with the other garbage: salad dressing, lint and dog poo.
This morning, when I went outside, the lid of the trash thing was flipped back and leaning against the fence. No way, I thought, did that opossum, with its torn fur and limp pose, come back to life, grow four feet and pop out of the trash. What's the word? Revenant.
I put my head over the top of the trash and looked in. There was the opossum, animated and calm, sitting in the trash like he was meant to.
The neighbor running, yelling at me in Spanish. But smiling, too, asking me why I was so cruel to put a live opossum in the trash.
She'd heard it scratching and lifted the lid.
Back inside, I was considering my options. I'd only been awake for about five minutes, and the coffee was still brewing. Unresolved, I went back outside to confer with my neighbors.
The lid to the trash was closed, and they were heading back into their house.
I asked them what happened to the opossum, and they told me he ran away. They tipped over the trash, and the opossum ran away.