'Extraordinary.’
I did a question and answer profile during the week and after the single word above, this came out as the explanation.
‘You are misunderstood by the feeble-minded and mysterious to the faint of heart. To those who can see below the surface however, you are highly fascinating and truly lovable. It might take a second for you to warm up, but once you do, you're leagues ahead of everyone else. You are authentic and extremely versatile!'
Someone must have told this to the three legged possum that plagues me night after night by jumping on my roof and thumping around on his wooden leg until I go outside with a torch.
I did a question and answer profile during the week and after the single word above, this came out as the explanation.
‘You are misunderstood by the feeble-minded and mysterious to the faint of heart. To those who can see below the surface however, you are highly fascinating and truly lovable. It might take a second for you to warm up, but once you do, you're leagues ahead of everyone else. You are authentic and extremely versatile!'
Someone must have told this to the three legged possum that plagues me night after night by jumping on my roof and thumping around on his wooden leg until I go outside with a torch.
Because I’m leagues ahead of everyone else, during those few seconds I take to warm up, I shine the light under my chin until he is completely spooked. I do that because I am versatile. But because I am loveable, people tell me things.
For instance, I used to jog with a group of women and we sorted ourselves into speed groups. I belonged to the ‘talk and jog’ brigade, as compared to the ‘sweat and jog’ junkies and the ‘gossip and prance’ yummies. One of my talking buddies puffed along beside me and hinted that we might join the yummies because she was exhausted. The night before had been stormy and she had been on the roof for hours.
“Oh,” I said, a little surprised, considering the thunder and lightning.
“Yes,” she said. “I tried to get my husband to go up but he wouldn’t.”
Presuming she wanted the gutters cleared before the rain teemed down, I was astonished. In those days, my hero specifically waited for the teeming rain and thunder before he cleared the gutters, leaving me wailing from below, “Get down. It’s dangerous,” while I ducked the flying bundles of wet leaves.
But no, my jogging buddy hadn’t wanted the gutters cleaned. She was trying to save a possum.
I didn’t want to hear this story because I don’t believe in saving annoying wildlife. I hope and pray that the possums who crack my tiles will take a tumble and break their necks. As it happens, she normally did too, but this one had fallen down her chimney, which had been bricked up for a gas heater. She thought that when she turned on the heater, the possum might die and stink out the house. At the time she climbed onto the roof, she could still hear him hissing.
This woman was clearly not feeble minded, she had never found me at all mysterious, and she’d had a plan. She tied a brick to a rope and she let this down the chimney. I said, “I understand the brick anchor, but how would you convince the possum to climb the rope?”
“Aha!” she said. “An apple in a stocking.” She sat on top of the chimney (in the rain while lightning flashed) holding a torch, which she shone on the apple that she dangled temptingly just inside the chimney. The possum was supposed to see the lit-up, delicious apple and climb the anchored rope, thereby saving its hairy self and getting a good feed as well.
I didn’t finish my prance that day. I bent over and started one of those laughs that just won’t stop. Each time I took a breath, I started laughing again. This is because I am authentic. “Did the possum eventually come for the lure?” I asked, when I had wiped my eyes for the sixth time and finally had control of my breathing.
“No,” she said dolefully. “I think I hit it when I threw the brick down the chimney.”
This is why I don’t get on the roof with an apple, a length of rope, and a brick. It’s inhumane. I just light up my face with the torch, indicating to my possum that I might have an apple. They’re not very bright.
For instance, I used to jog with a group of women and we sorted ourselves into speed groups. I belonged to the ‘talk and jog’ brigade, as compared to the ‘sweat and jog’ junkies and the ‘gossip and prance’ yummies. One of my talking buddies puffed along beside me and hinted that we might join the yummies because she was exhausted. The night before had been stormy and she had been on the roof for hours.
“Oh,” I said, a little surprised, considering the thunder and lightning.
“Yes,” she said. “I tried to get my husband to go up but he wouldn’t.”
Presuming she wanted the gutters cleared before the rain teemed down, I was astonished. In those days, my hero specifically waited for the teeming rain and thunder before he cleared the gutters, leaving me wailing from below, “Get down. It’s dangerous,” while I ducked the flying bundles of wet leaves.
But no, my jogging buddy hadn’t wanted the gutters cleaned. She was trying to save a possum.
I didn’t want to hear this story because I don’t believe in saving annoying wildlife. I hope and pray that the possums who crack my tiles will take a tumble and break their necks. As it happens, she normally did too, but this one had fallen down her chimney, which had been bricked up for a gas heater. She thought that when she turned on the heater, the possum might die and stink out the house. At the time she climbed onto the roof, she could still hear him hissing.
This woman was clearly not feeble minded, she had never found me at all mysterious, and she’d had a plan. She tied a brick to a rope and she let this down the chimney. I said, “I understand the brick anchor, but how would you convince the possum to climb the rope?”
“Aha!” she said. “An apple in a stocking.” She sat on top of the chimney (in the rain while lightning flashed) holding a torch, which she shone on the apple that she dangled temptingly just inside the chimney. The possum was supposed to see the lit-up, delicious apple and climb the anchored rope, thereby saving its hairy self and getting a good feed as well.
I didn’t finish my prance that day. I bent over and started one of those laughs that just won’t stop. Each time I took a breath, I started laughing again. This is because I am authentic. “Did the possum eventually come for the lure?” I asked, when I had wiped my eyes for the sixth time and finally had control of my breathing.
“No,” she said dolefully. “I think I hit it when I threw the brick down the chimney.”
This is why I don’t get on the roof with an apple, a length of rope, and a brick. It’s inhumane. I just light up my face with the torch, indicating to my possum that I might have an apple. They’re not very bright.
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