Aldric, a man whose temper was as fiery as his collection of vintage chili cook-off trophies, received a call. It was his wife, Beatrice. “Darling,” Beatrice chirped, her voice laced with a nervous tremor, “I’ve had… a slight incident.”
Aldric’s blood pressure spiked. “Beatrice! Don’t tell me you’ve wrecked the car again!” He’d bought her a pristine, cherry-red convertible just last month, and the insurance company was already eyeing him with suspicion.
“Well…” Beatrice began hesitantly, “It’s… more of a ‘fender-bender-ish’ incident. I backed into a… thing. A rather large, fluffy… thing.”
Aldric’s imagination ran wild. A llama? A giant angora rabbit? A rogue pile of marshmallow fluff the size of a small car? The possibilities sent shivers down his spine, and not the good kind.
He raced to the scene, envisioning a colossal repair bill and an insurance agent with a magnifying glass. He arrived to find Beatrice standing beside a very dented car, and next to the car, a sheep. A single, very fluffy sheep. It was munching calmly on a nearby bush, seemingly unconcerned by the crumpled fender.
Beatrice looked up, her face a mixture of sheepish guilt and bewilderment. “I… I thought it was a giant cotton ball,” she explained, her voice barely a whisper. “I tried to… fluff it.”
Aldric stared at the sheep, then at Beatrice, then back at the sheep. Finally, he let out a long, slow sigh. “Beatrice,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm, “we are getting you a driving instructor… and possibly a sheep-identification course.” He paused, then added, “And maybe some anger management classes for *me*.” He chuckled, the tension finally breaking. “I’m not sure what’s more expensive, repairing the car or paying for therapy after witnessing a sheep-fluffing incident.”
