Scene: at the park, playing our favourite zombie-hunting game. Today, we’re pretending that every stick we find on the ground is a zombie bone, and you have to be careful, because some of them reanimate when you’re not looking.
“Look!” Says Little D, holding up a tiny stick. “This one is from a baby zombie!”
“Yes, those are especially dangerous,” I say. “They look so cute and harmless that you don’t realize you’re in danger until they attack.”
Shortly thereafter, we’re walking past the dog park and I say “I see the zombie-hunting canine corps are training hard.” Little A looks at the dogs playing and nods approvingly, with the air of an officer overseeing her troops. “Big dogs, little dogs, they all have different skills,” I add.
“That one’s really little!” Little D says, pointing at a fluffy little white dog.
“Yes,” I say. “Very useful against those baby zombies.”
“Yes!” Little A adds solemnly. “They can duck between a zombie’s legs and then jump up and bite them on the penis. Zombies hate that!”