The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips and a haunted look in his eyes. Sheila told the story to everyone. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box, wearing a tiny, improvised cone made from a coffee filter, plotting his next move.
The quandary was this: Frank had to find Beans before the ferret either (a) died of capsaicin overdose, (b) smeared chili onto every porous surface in the apartment, or (c)—most pressingly—crawled into a heating vent to die, which would perfume the entire house with the smell of rotting ferret and ghost pepper chili for the rest of the summer. the frank and beans quandary
And Frank learned the hard lesson: a closed lid is not a locked cage, a ferret’s ambition knows no bounds, and the difference between a good story and a disaster is simply a matter of how many times you get peed on. The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less
Here was the true quandary: to pull the ferret out meant enduring more bites, more chili, and the distinct possibility of getting his hand stuck. To leave the ferret meant dismantling the wall with a sledgehammer, which his landlord would not appreciate. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box,
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.
Beans, meanwhile, had escaped his cage via a flaw in the latch that Frank had been meaning to fix for six months. The ferret, driven by some ancient weasel imperative, ascended the dish towel draped over the oven handle, dropped onto the counter, and squeezed into the chili pot.
The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips and a haunted look in his eyes. Sheila told the story to everyone. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box, wearing a tiny, improvised cone made from a coffee filter, plotting his next move.
The quandary was this: Frank had to find Beans before the ferret either (a) died of capsaicin overdose, (b) smeared chili onto every porous surface in the apartment, or (c)—most pressingly—crawled into a heating vent to die, which would perfume the entire house with the smell of rotting ferret and ghost pepper chili for the rest of the summer.
And Frank learned the hard lesson: a closed lid is not a locked cage, a ferret’s ambition knows no bounds, and the difference between a good story and a disaster is simply a matter of how many times you get peed on.
Here was the true quandary: to pull the ferret out meant enduring more bites, more chili, and the distinct possibility of getting his hand stuck. To leave the ferret meant dismantling the wall with a sledgehammer, which his landlord would not appreciate.
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.
Beans, meanwhile, had escaped his cage via a flaw in the latch that Frank had been meaning to fix for six months. The ferret, driven by some ancient weasel imperative, ascended the dish towel draped over the oven handle, dropped onto the counter, and squeezed into the chili pot.