Is there anything more unnerving than having a professional visit your abode for such and such a problem, only to find after the obligatory elapse of 17 hours that he's only made it worse? How do badgers do that? How do they time it so you go to sleep smiling, the check in the mail, and you wake up with no heat in the house, the check already cashed?
It's a perpetual thirty degrees out and Beaver's been toiling in long Johns and a cap, a hot water bottle on her trembling webbed feet. She can work under these conditions, but she dislikes paying someone to make these conditions so. The more the Little Red House gets roughed up by professionals, the more things fall apart.
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