I love my dog. (Say it like Jeff Foxworthy would. "I love m' dog.")
She's bred to kill critters. That's why her hair is so long around her eyes. She can go in those holes and drag 'em out without fear of being blinded. But it's got to be a critter that she knows she can take. I'm amazed at the discretion. A cat her size will be taunted, but never engaged. A raccoon will be totally ignored, even if it was eating my face while I slept. My dog would just look on and say, "You should have woken up. That's what I'd have done."
When it comes to a bigger dog, reason leaves the building and that dog will be attacked. If I wasn't there, I guess I'd have to buy less dog food the next day.
But a possum? You can forget it. She knows that a possum is for sure no excuses death meat.
The funny thing is, she gets the possum in her jaws and slings it from side to side and mauls it and jumps up and down on it and then decides it's good and dead. She comes in and takes what she thinks is a well-earned nap. The possum gets up and walks away.
I understand the survival instinct of "playing possum," but, for the life of me, I don't understand how they withstand all that abuse without seeming to have a scratch to show for it.