“What?” I yelp. “No! No, that’s not possible.” I drop Shade’s hand and run over to the animal. Yup. It’s fucking dead. “No, no, no, no, no!”
Shade’s behind me. Of course he is. He’s trying to see the poor thing, so I quickly thrust my phone into his hands and spin him around so he can’t look at the animal. Maybe it was so scared that it had a heart attack or something.
How could this happen? It was fine. It was hissing and spitting and acting just like it probably should when it’s scared and cornered, and then bam! I leave for under a minute, and it up and fucking dies. Why does the whole entire world fucking hate me so fucking much?
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!
I realize I’m getting hysterical, and I really have to calm down. I have to look for a shovel. No. NO! I refuse to let this happen. This thing is not going to die. I’m going to revive it. I’ve seen a few videos on the internet of people giving animals CPR. I can do that, can’t I?
Fuck it. I’m doing it even it means giving it mouth to mouth.
I drop down to my knees and grab the creature. It’s curiously shaped and, oddly enough, still warm. It’s not stiff, but then I guess there hasn’t been enough time for rigor mortis. God, why do I even know that term? I turn it onto its back and tilt the head up. Which side is the heart on? I stick my fingers across the chest in what I think is the approximate direction. It’s just a gentle press with the fingertips. That’s how I’ve seen people do it. The right or the left side? The left, duh. But which is the left? Why can’t I tell right now? Why can’t I see anything? I blink furiously to clear away the tears blinding me.
“Dead opossum!” Shade screams from behind me.
Yup. That would be why I’m crying. And the poor thing. It’s actually not that ugly. The longer I look at it, the more it appears pretty cute. And it doesn’t feel strange. He’s kind of soft underneath my fingertips, and his long mouth is gaping open to reveal teeth. There are also lots of whiskers all over the place. Jesus, I’m going to have to put my mouth there if it doesn’t respond. I think. Do you blow breath down an animal like you would a person?
“Wait!” Shade runs over and holds the phone in my general direction.
I’m about to tell him I don’t have time for that when the tinny, electronic voice starts talking—talking about opossums.
About. How. They. Play. Dead.
“Oh my god!” I back away from the animal in horror. “You think it’s still alive?”
Shade nods solemnly. I back him up because now I’m worried the thing might have some kind of disease or might revive and bite him. Please let it just be faking it. Please. Please don’t let it actually have died.
My god, I almost put my mouth on its mouth.
What would it have tasted like? What do they actually eat? Christ, why am I even considering this?
I snatch the phone and shut off the voice that’s reciting facts about opossums. I find a wildlife rescue in no time and hit the call icon. The phone rings and rings, then a sweet voice comes through on the other end. That voice sounds a lot like salvation at the moment.
“Hi! I found an opossum in my backyard. It was hissing a second ago, and now it’s died. I mean, I think it’s just faking it. It…it’s the middle of the day, though—broad daylight. Um, and we’re in a subdivision, which is not where it should be. I think maybe it’s acting strange, and I also think it might be diseased or have something seriously wrong with it. I think it has rabies.”
“Actually, opossums can’t get rabies because their body temperature is too low,” the girl on the other end of the line chuckles.
Why the hell is she laughing about this? This is so not funny. She’s supposed to be a wildlife rescuer or something. Shouldn’t she actually care? If the animal isn’t faking it, it is going to be a real tragedy over here.
“It’s perfectly normal for it to be doing what it’s doing. I guarantee you, it’s fine,” the girl goes on.
How would she know? She can’t even see it. I debate texting her a picture and asking if she finds it so funny now to laugh at the unfortunate creature.
“Uh, I…can you send someone? This thing shouldn’t be here. It’s in the middle of the city. I mean, not the middle, but it’s probably not safe here. There are cars and stuff. Can it be relocated?”
“Sure, we can send someone. Can you stay with him and watch to make sure he’s okay for an hour or so until I can get someone out to you?”
“Yes. Sure. Absolutely.” Dear god. An hour? What if it revives and attacks us?
I give the girl our address, then take Shade’s hand and march him back ten feet or so. We sit down on the grass, and we’re completely silent as we wait. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I start looking up facts about opossums just to keep us busy. Shade’s cheeks are stained with tear tracks from before, back when we thought the creature had died. I want to take him inside and clean him up, but that would mean leaving the opossum, and I don’t want it to wander off and get hit by a car on the road or have someone freak out and do something terrible to it in their panic. Even in my panic, I would never have done anything like getting a broom or…or something else. I would have tried to make sure it was okay.
“Did you know that opossums are actually immune to some snake venom or something like that?” I quickly paraphrase the super long science article without really even reading it. “They provide the anti-venom for a ton of different snake bites.”
“That’s cool,” Shade says.
“I always thought they got anti-venom from the actual snake. Wow. I guess we learned something today. That and they eat ticks. So they’re doing something right.”
“What’s a tick?”
“A gross bug. You don’t ever want to find out. Always wear socks in your shoes if you go camping, and tuck your pants in.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
“I wish we could keep it.”
“Absolutely not! It’s a wild animal.”
“I wish I could have a cat or a dog, but Dad says no.”
“Take that up with your dad. I’m not going to interfere.”
“That sucks.”
“It might, but it’s not happening. I already stuck my neck out for the tree.”
“Did Dad not want it?”
Shit. I’m not going to explain this one to Shade. He already gets way more than he should about all of this, so I’m not going to break his heart that much more. “He wanted it, but he didn’t like the color I chose.”
“But it’s green.”
“Yeah. He wanted pink.”
“Pink?” Shade giggles. “Dad wanted pink?”
“Or purple. I can’t remember.”
Thank god the gate opens then, and some dude in a dull green uniform with a pole or noose thing and a cage comes walking in like he owns the place. Thank. Freaking. God.
Shade and I point in the direction of the opossum together, mutely. I think we’re both holding our breath. If the opossum has revived, we haven’t seen it happen. Dang, those things really can fake it until they make it. Now those bumper stickers make so much more sense.