Clive, the largest and baldest of the wolves, squints upward as a goat's hoof kicks the pot’s rim. The lid descends with a clang, plunging the space into a jaundiced half-light. Steam curls up from the bubbling broth, and the wolves exchange panicked glances as the goats' laughter echoes from above. Midge, wiry and perpetually sarcastic, tugs at a cluster of lobster shells stuck to his rear. "Well, I always wanted a spa day. Just not as the main course." Beryl, jittery and wide-eyed, sniffs the air. "Is that... Old Bay? Oh, we are so doomed."

Mungo, the smallest wolf but with the loudest bark, yelps as a crab clamps onto his tail. "It's not even Tuesday! Who boils wolves on a Monday?!" "Less yapping, more lifting! Help me with the lid!" Clive bellows, bracing his paws against a slick corn cob. "I'd love to, but my paws are buttered. Literally." Midge deadpans, sliding backward as Beryl tries to wedge herself between two mussels.

"On three, we push! One, two—wait, is it push on three or after three?" "Just push, Beryl!" Clive grunts, as the group heaves in unison. The lid budges, but a goat’s hoof stomps it down again, sending shockwaves through the boiling broth. "Teamwork makes the steam work!" Mungo pants, half-laughing, half-weeping as a crawfish climbs his leg.

"If we get out of this, I’m going vegan. Or goat-atarian." Midge mutters, wiping paprika from his nose. Beryl reaches for a lifeline and comes up with a limp shrimp. "I knew I should’ve joined the poodles in the next yard. They never get boiled." Clive sighs, resigned, and slumps against a potato. "At least we’ll go out seasoned."

"Do you think they’ll at least use napkins?" "I hope they choke on our fur." "Speak for yourself. I exfoliated for this!" "Whatever happens, at least we’re not alone. And hey—could be worse. Could be tofu."

"Next time, we stick to the forest." "Next time, we keep our fur." "Next time, we eat the goats." "Next time, we pick the menu."