Two-thirty in the morning and the dogs are barking to go out. A frantic hunt under my bedroom window erupts, with the dogs circling, growling, and charging. I'm out there with a flashlight, yelling at the dogs to come in, when Emmett crashes out of the bushes with a huge possum dangling from his jaws.
He did follow orders and very reluctantly dropped it, and came in. All night they bugged me to go out, but myth held true -- the possum was playing possum and had made good his escape by daylight. All is well, aside from the bags under my eyes. Ah...country living with dogs.