R.I.P.(ossum)

Let me begin by saying this is pretty much Fletch's fault. When we made the decision for him to quit his job back in April, it wasn't because he was working a job he hated for a soul-sucking corporation that was drawing every bit of joy out of his life, nor was it because the business end of writing had grown too tricky for me to manage myself. Mainly, I needed him around in case a possum were to die in the yard. And yet today when this very circumstance arose, he was in a classroom learning how to work QuickBooks. Which is why I can't be blamed for what happened next. I mean, he CHOSE to leave me home alone. He made the conscious decisions to put on his khakis, grease up his head with a liberal supply of hair product, and leave this morning with absolutely zero regard to whether or not I might need to bury a marsupial rodent marsupial. (Is it both? I'm not sure because the person I'd ask wasn't here today.) The story begins last week during lunch. Fletch and I were having the sandwiches that he brought home from Jimmy John's because a major component of his job is to make sure I don't eat nothing but Froot Loops and then have a sugar crash in the afternoon. Anyway, all of a sudden, Libby leapt to attention and began to glower at something beyond the sliding glass door. Unusual, because there's absolutely no...