Barnaby Butterfield, a recently deceased taxidermist, was having a bit of a problem. Not the usual post-mortem issues, mind you. Barnaby was experiencing what his bewildered widow, Agnes, described as a “dead man’s six-month itch.” It wasn’t a literal itch, of course, but an overwhelming urge to rearrange his meticulously organized taxidermy collection.
“Agnes, darling,” Barnaby groaned from his mahogany coffin (a rather fetching piece, he’d always thought), his voice a muffled rasp, “The badger needs a better viewing angle. He’s currently overshadowed by the pheasant. It’s aesthetically displeasing.”
Agnes, a woman whose patience was thinner than her patience, sighed dramatically. “Barnaby, you’ve been dead for six months! And that badger’s been overshadowed for fifteen years! Besides, I’m trying to watch ‘Gardening with Gertrude’.”
Barnaby’s spectral form shimmered. “But the squirrels! The asymmetry is killing me! They need to be rotated by precisely 17 degrees.”
Agnes pinched the bridge of her nose. “Seventeen degrees? Barnaby, you’re a ghost. Your opinion on squirrel placement is, to put it mildly, irrelevant. And frankly, a little creepy.”
Suddenly, a loud CRACK echoed from the basement. Agnes rushed downstairs, expecting to find another taxidermied animal re-arranged, only to find a large, rather disgruntled-looking badger had somehow escaped his display case and was now gnawing on the legs of a priceless antique chair.
Agnes stared at the badger, then back at the coffin. “Barnaby,” she whispered, a slow grin spreading across her face. “I think you found a way to get your wish. You’ve certainly got my attention now!” She shook her head, chuckling, “Looks like even in death, you still manage to cause a right rumpus.”
