Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying

I was calling on my kinfolk the day I heard about the beaver.

Before the beaver, it was an otherwise ordinary Saturday — breakfast at Granny’s, a necessary nap following my breakfast at Granny’s, and an afternoon sojourn at my sister Wendy’s abode.

But all normality faded with the aforementioned animal.

The beaver saga began on my sister’s back door step, where I bounced about in an old overcoat to fend off the frigid winter air. And while it took several knocks at the door for my sister to save me from my freezing wait, Wendy eventually welcomed me with a Houdini-style towel wrapped around her head.

“Follow me,” the Great Houdini said as she moseyed to her bathroom mirror, where the magic of makeup awaited her.

Like most Southern women, Wendy administered foundation and rouge to her freshly cleaned face, soiling her skin from forehead to chin. And after blotting her color-stained lips with a Kleenex, she led me into her bedroom.

“Sit still,” she said, freeing her head from the Houdini’s hold. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” And with that, Wendy escaped inside of a nearby closet.

“Aha!” she cried, snatching the surprise.

“Aaaaaagh!” I screamed as my sister emerged from the closet, a dead fox dangling from her right hand.

And then she returned the pelt to its resting place, a wire clothes hanger.

“That’s just disgusting,” I scowled while Wendy settled into a nearby seat for a diet soda and some sister talk.

“I agree,” she said with the twist of her plastic bottle cap. “But it was a gift from my man-friend.”

“Well, at least you keep it in the closet,” I commended her.

“I told him enough was enough,” my sister sighed. “But then he caught me a 50-pound beaver.”

“Do what?!” I cried, skeptical that such a thing existed.

“Yes,” she affirmed of her man-friend’s find. “A 50-pound beaver. And he delivered the dead beaver onto my back door step. That is, before he transported it into the bath tub!”

Wendy then gestured to the guest bathroom down the hall.

“It’s nasty,” my sister said of the beaver. “It has these long, yellow teeth …”

As my sister described her beaver bathroom companion, I decided to cut my visit short that afternoon. And as I drove away from my sister’s dwelling, I did what all women with two sisters do.

I called the other sister.

“It’s just like a cat dragging up a dead rat!” I complained to my baby sister, Audrey.

“What’s she going to do with it?” Audrey asked, aghast that a beaver now resided in our older sister’s bath tub.

“I don’t know,” I laughed. “You don’t think she’ll try to cook it, do you?”

I couldn’t see my sister cooking beaver meat for dinner, despite her fondness for the man-friend. But as my conversation with sister Audrey concluded, we both agreed to steer clear of Wendy’s kitchen. At least for a few weeks.

I took the long route home that afternoon, if such a thing exists in these parts. And while I drove those Epsom roads, I wondered what I would do with a 50-pound beaver. Would I serve up some beaver stew for my man-friend?

“That would mandate an act of magic,” I said, reflecting on my sister’s sacrifice of sanity as I pulled into my drive. “Why, that would take the Great Houdini.”



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying