Strange Conversations: Part Three Hundred and Forty

Today, I spotted a tiny possum in the mulberry tree, prompting a long Twitter discussion, mostly with myself, about whether he was sleeping or dead. Since our house is something of an elephant burial ground for possums (you know that phrase makes sense), I assumed dead.

Until he moved.

Then I assumed zombie possum.

After dark, we checked with Nick’s flood-inspired LED headlamp, and he was gone:

ME: So the jury returns a verdict of “not dead.”
NICK: Good.
ME: But remains out on a verdict of “undead.”
NICK: Ja. Listen to ze possums of ze night. Vhat beautiful music they make.
ME: Darling, possums are nocturnal anyway.
NICK: Ja. Bugger.