Evan came from a long line of angel balancers, but he only wanted to balance rats.
“I have no interest in balancing angels on pins,” he said, “nor cherubs on tuning forks, nor toasters on seraphim. I wish to balance rats on poignards—not the points, for that would be unkind, but on the pommels.”
His family disowned him, except for an elderly great-aunt. She had him over for holidays. He made his own friends and found that there was money in rat-balancing at parties and corporate events, and in the end he was very happy.
Mean Waffle ,
It’s good to have a calling. Is it just me, or is this particular rat a bit new at this, and still learning to trust his (or her) balancer?
Looks more to me as though he’s saying, “All right, I balanced. Where’s my treat?”