“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad.
They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to
be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at
him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.