Sheriff Roy Templeton tucked Junior into bed.
“Tell me a story, dad? And can it be about animals and not one of those times where you make up a story about when Deputy Tyrone handles Animal Control?”
After thinking the request over, this was what the Sheriff told:
Deep in the hollers of East Tennessee, where the moonshine flows and the Wi-Fi don’t, lived a Fox named Floyd. Floyd wasn’t your run-of-the-mill varmint. He had a cozy den—think shiplap walls, a mini-fridge stocked with Diet Dr. Pepper, and a flatscreen blaring SEC Network 24/7. Floyd worked hard for his comforts, chasing rabbits and dodging coyotes, so he guarded his den like Nick Saban guards a playbook.
One crisp fall day, as Floyd was polishing his “Neyland Stadium or Bust” sign, a Weasel named Wendell waddled up. Wendell was a scruffy critter with a duffel bag, a sob story longer than a CVS receipt, and breath that could peel paint. “Floyd, ol’ pal,” Wendell whined, “my burrow got flooded, my gal left me for a skunk, and I’m down to my last pack of ramen. Can I crash for a night or two?”
Floyd, being a fox with a heart softer than a Dolly Parton ballad, said, “Sure, Wendell. One night. Maybe two. But don’t touch my remote, and don’t you dare root for Alabama.” Wendell nodded, flashed a grin like a used car salesman, and scurried inside.
Night one, Wendell was tolerable. He ate half of Floyd’s venison jerky but told a decent story about outrunning a hawk. Night two, he drank Floyd’s last Diet Dr. Pepper and left fur on the couch. By night three, Wendell was sprawled out like he owned the place, wearing Floyd’s “Vols 4 Life” hoodie, streaming The Bachelor on Floyd’s TV, and inviting a posse of possums over for poker night. “Just makin’ myself at home,” Wendell said, kicking his paws up. Floyd’s eye twitched.
A week in, Wendell had rearranged Floyd’s den, claiming “feng shui” demanded the mini-fridge face west. He’d eaten every scrap of food, including Floyd’s emergency Hot Pockets, and started calling Floyd “roomie.” The possums were now daily fixtures, leaving empty PBR cans and arguing over whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. (It is, but that’s beside the point.) Floyd’s den smelled like a locker room, and his patience was thinner than a gas station hot dog.
One night, as Wendell belched through a rendition of “Sweet Caroline” with his possum choir, Floyd snapped. He grabbed a broom, chased the whole lot out, and bolted the door. “Wendell,” he growled, “hospitality ain’t a lease agreement. Git!” Wendell, clutching his duffel, muttered about “foxes these days” and shuffled off to bother some other sucker.
Floyd aired out his den, restocked his fridge, and watched Tennessee trounce Vandy in peace. Word spread through the holler: don’t overstay your welcome at Floyd’s, or you’ll meet the business end of his broom.
Moral of the Story: Guests are like fish—fine for a day, but after three, they stink up the joint. Set a timer on your welcome mat, or you’ll be hosting a reality show called Squatters Gone Wild.
See you next week, everyone!