"It's the Boston Marathon, Possum," I explained. "You should be proud that it ends in Back Bay and pleased that thousands of runners from around the world have finished a great race and are enjoying your lovely neighborhood."
Possum didn't agree. "Some of them look like they want to be sick. And are you saying that they ran all those miles for no reason? Surely not!" he replied.
"For most runners, the goal is to complete the race and to beat their own personal record," I said.
"Oh, so that's the point?" said he. "Just to finish what you started, whether or not it was a sensible idea to begin with? That's silly. You're supposed to run to chase food, catch food, attack enemies, and flee from predators. It would be much better if there were some sort of threat at the starting line, like rabid gorillas. Then there'd be some sense to it. Otherwise, why not stay in Hopkinton and help the locals with their gardening? There are probably lots of voles and rabbits worth chasing."
Possum ponders the Marathon.
I tried to reason with him but he suddenly fell asleep. He is worn out because we had a late night, watching "Upstairs Downstairs" (PBS) in between episodes of "Downton Abbey" (instant Netflix). Too many debutantes flirting with radical chauffeurs, and all those sulking valets and interfering dowagers were hard for him to keep straight.
It seems he will be spending the remainder of Marathon Monday on his velvet chair, having one of his marathon naps.