When Frank returned from the bathroom, he found the scene: chili splattered across the ceiling like a Jackson Pollock painting, a single, chili-caked ferret paw-print on the refrigerator, and the pot overturned on the floor. But no Beans.

Sheila held the tuna. Frank donned the mitts. Beans, torn between his hatred of being captured and his love of fish, hesitated for exactly half a second. Frank lunged. There was a shriek—from Beans—and a yelp—from Frank—and a lot of chili-scented ferret thrashing.

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 quandary presented itself on a Tuesday. Frank had made his "Famous Five-Alarm Memorial Day Chili" for a neighborhood potluck. It contained three types of beans, ghost peppers, and a secret splash of espresso. It was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. He’d left the pot on the counter to cool, lid slightly ajar.

In the end, Beans was bathed in the sink (he peed on Frank three times), the wall was patched with spackle, and the chili was deemed a total loss.