Happy Dog is very pleased to announce this group candidate to Angry Beaver. “Moppets! Everybody loves children!”
Angry Beaver grabbed his ear, hard, and hissed in the meanest little angry beaver voice he could, “Does is say in the job description that everyone has to love the Dream Interpreter?”
Happy Dog answered in a mumbled shivering whine, “Yes. Twice.”
Angry Beaver released his ear. “Who wrote the job description?”
“You?” Happy Dog asked, his bark ending is a strangled little squeak.
Angry Beaver threw up his short little paws and stalked behind the screen. When he came back, he was no calmer. He fired a question at the group. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“Killed someone once.” “Little thievery.” “It was self-defense.” “Strictly small time.” “We interrupt each other.” “I was a prostitute.” “All the time.” “In a former life.” “We’re honest.” “I drowned a puppy.” “Not that that’s a bad thing.” “But it was like the runt.” “Yeah, no one missed it.”
The older child waved his arms for quiet. “Listen here guv,” he said, “we’ve got good points.”
“Do I look like a Masterpiece Theater character to you?” Angry Beaver asked.
The older boy thought he rather did, in an animalistic sort of way, but he also thought it wiser to ignore the question. “We’re a lot older than we look. We’ve got, like, experience. But we’re still young enough to charm, see? People tell us things, things they don’t think we understand but we do. And since you’re paying the coin, we’d tell those things to you. Nothing would go on around here that you wouldn’t know about.”
“There are quite a few things that go on around here that I don’t want to know about,” Angry Beaver answered.
“We only tell you the things you’d want to know about,” the boy insisted.
“How would you know?” Angry Beaver asked.
“We’d know.”
“How?” Angry Beaver insisted.
“Look g, that’s what you’d be paying us for, right?”
“That doesn’t answer the question,.” Angry Beaver said. He’d stopped pacing. Suddenly he twirled (having little paws makes you a good twirler) and snapped, “Young lady, pull your skirt down.” Before she could finish blinking her eyes in shock, Happy Dog! leapt and put his teeth in her skirt and pulled it and her down into the wet grass. Seeing her fall, the other two younger boys pounced on the dog, fists flying. The older boy started bellowing, “Hey, Oi, Yo,” and waded in. The maelström of pudgy limbs rolled over and engulfed Angry Beaver.
Later, sitting on the floor in a large empty closet, back against the wall, a fifth of bourbon in one paw, the other paw (the injured one) lying on Happy Dog’s back, intermittently belching, Angry Beaver cried a little. The tears gave Happy Dog! the courage to ask in his smallest spaniel voice “Why are you so angry?”
Angry Beaver patted him and said, “I’m Angry Beaver.”
Happy Dog! crossed his eyes in thought. “I know, but . . . .”
“I hate Reynard,” Angry Beaver slurred.
“You ate Reynard!” Happy Dog! yelped. “How?!”
“With butter,” Angry Beaver said. “Lots of butter.” Then he fell over in a doze. Happy Dog! licked the spilled bourbon up.
