A fat, grubby little creature looks up at you from Harley’s arms. It’s cradled like a baby— in the same way a normal person might hold a beloved cat or dog. It’s gaze is for too calm for a wild animal that’s presumably been haphazardly plucked out of a random dumpster. It squirms in Harley’s arms, as if an attempt at cuteness will transition its presence into the home more smoothly.

A raccoon. By all accounts a pest; brought into the apartment by an overactive Harley who can’t so no to an overweight animal with funny paws.

“What?” Her voice is already shrill, as if the closer she sounds to Fran Fine, the more likely the animal is to be accepted. “We can’t keep him?”

She’s distraught with her roommate’s apparent distaste for the animal. They’d already accepted the hyenas (though she certainly hadn’t mentioned their existence in her Craig’s List as), what’s another little furry friend to add to their family? If anything, she thinks the raccoon will liven things up. She’d done a quick google search on the way back to the apartment, apparently they like to burrow into things. How cute!

“I named him Sigmund!” Ah yes, because the dirty little creature deserves to be named after the austere father of modern psychology. It does have a funny look in its eye, maybe it is interested in psychoanalysis. “We can’t get rid of him if he has a name.”

Bud and Lou laugh — or bark, whatever Hyenas do — from their crates in the corner of the room. The crates having been a compromise in the first place; if Harley had her way, both them and the raccoon would be free-roaming.