Playing possum

Yesterday morning Rhiannon and I went out to get a few groceries before the Thanksgiving rush. Rod was at work, and Wyatt still sleeping...like only a teenaged-boy can. After getting our groceries, we decided to get some tea and a muffins at Tim Horton's and go check out the house. We pulled into the driveway, and in the distance, next to the newest addition at the back of the house, seemed to be something lying on the white river rocks in the garden. Something that didn't quite belong. Something the size of a small watermelon, and furry. We got out of the van and cautiously crept near. It wasn't moving. Rhiannon threw a rock towards it, and it still didn't move. I went a little closer, and noticed a long tail curving out to the side. A possum! Rhiannon threw another rock...still no movement. We sneaked a little closer, then we noticed the possum's sides heave slightly as it took a breath. This was enough to send us both running back to the van!
We got in and pulled the van up a little closer, and saw it try to move its head, somewhat lethargically. It even appeared to be getting up at one point, but then it seemed to give up and flop back down.
"Maybe it's playing possum" I said helpfully. Do possums actually do that? We didn't see any signs of any blood or struggle nearby. It was almost as if it was drunk. Maybe it got into some rotten, fermented fruit at a nearby farm. Or maybe it was sick. Either way, I hoped we wouldn't be left with a possum corpse to clean up when we get the keys on Friday!
When we got home I called Rod at work, and asked him if could drive by on his way home and see if it was still there. We both decided that if it ended up dying, hopefully Jimmy the Greek next door would spot it and dispose of it for us. Some country-folk we're going to be! Luckily, Rod drove by after work and the possum was gone. So, either it died and was dragged off by some coyotes or a gang of very strong cats, or it was playing possum (and not doing a very good job of it), or, being nocturnal, it just chose a really bad place to decide to sleep. Maybe it was a teenaged-boy possum, sleeping away an unseasonably warm Sunday morning.
Speaking of sleeping...four more sleeps!