An American Story

Two possums dressed as children (their mother raised them as such) were crying when their father (not a possum) came home.  Their mother (not a possum either) was already there.  She stayed home with the children everyday and kept house (though actually they lived in a bog swamp).  There was a family dog too but it doesn’t come up until later (when it dies).  Now the mother had sent the children outside to play so she could get some cleaning done (an optimistic thought in a bog swamp).  The children sat under a tree and ate the apples that had fallen to the ground (they were rotten).  The ripe apples were still hanging from the boughs but the children were not allowed to climb the tree because they hung from their tails (which disturbed their parents to no end).  As the children stuffed their mouths with the brown, sticky fruit, their dog, Ernest (a Laplander), bounded across the street to join them and was struck by a car.  Now I’d like to tell you the dog died quickly, so I will, but actually it was a long, agonizing death involving hours of grueling pain and convulsions. The children were devastated.  They ran into the house bawling, which is how their father found them when he came home with the money he had stolen from the bank.  He was a raccoon and a master thief.  He and his accomplice had been planning the heist for weeks.  His wife had known nothing about it, although she knew his accomplice all too well.  He was a dashing possum with a broad toothy grin and a weakness for tragic women.


by Jamey Dunham