Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork . A sound that speaks of regret, of chili-induced reflux, of a creature questioning every life choice that led to that moment.
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 frank and beans quandary
Frank owned the pot. Frank was a structural engineer with a tidy mind and a three-ring binder for his grocery receipts. Beans owned the small, damp apartment above Frank’s garage. Beans was a rescued ferret with a genius for mischief and a particular vendetta against zippers. Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork
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 ferret, driven by some ancient weasel imperative,
It started, as these things often do, with a pot of chili and a tragic lack of foresight.
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.
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.