For five years now people had put up with Finbarr talking constantly about his pet weasel. No one had seen it, although everyone had been invited to come for a look. And invited. And invited.
It was brown. It was friendly. It had a white chest. It was the cat’s pyjamas. It was unbelievably cute.
“No one seems interested ever in coming to see my pet weasel,” complained Finbarr at work. “No one! It’s pathetic.” Finbarr – it may come as no surprise – worked in a pet shop. It was the largest pet shop in the city.
Eventually, after much harping, Deidre said she would volunteer to go for a peek. It might help shut Finbarr up.
“My weasel!” declared Finbarr lovingly gathering Dillinger from its cage and presenting it to Deidre to pat.
Deidre didn’t have the heart to tell him that the thing wasn’t a weasel at all. It was a stoat.