Mrs Stoat and her husband, the effervescent (though not entirely socialized) Mr Stoat, lived in a comfortable little home in a comfortable little town on this side of the River.
Every day, Mr Stoat went off to sit behind his little desk in his little office and dream big dreams of life beyond the River while churning out modest business cases for the Chief Weasel. Mrs Stoat stayed home to walk the dog and vacuum the carpet and keep Mr Stoat's undergarments crisply pressed. In the evenings, over dinners of stewed mouse and spiced bread, the Stoats would talk about the daily goings-on in Stoatbridge, complain about the sky-rocketing cost of voles, make plans for the weekend, or sharply tsk the poor decision-making of the local elected officials.
Occasionally, when Mrs Stoat thought that Mr Stoat was in the right kind of mood, she would wistfully talk about the Nuthatchs' twins or how the Toads were expecting more tadpoles. Mr Stoat knew his wife was anxious to have babies of her own, but for a while, his meagre pay wasn't enough to support a family. Not too long ago, the Chief Weasel had seen the tremendous bureaucratic talent Mr Stoat possessed and had increased his salary as much as he thought a minor paper-pusher warranted. This meant that not only could the Stoats afford nice voles and the occasional rabbit, they could also afford to shoulder the financial burden of bringing at least one child into the world. If it didn't work out, Mrs Stoat was fairly certain filial cannibalism wasn't entirely frowned upon yet.