A couple of weeks into civilian life and he was bored. He needed the
adrenaline rush of living life on the edge.
Then he got a call from a relative in the States. A stunt double was needed for a new star. It was dangerous work, but well paid. The money didn't concern him, but he was intrigued by the element of danger. He left immediately and was soon installed on the film set.
Over the next few months he was swallowed by cats, whacked with brooms and had all manner of objects dropped on him. His small face was flattened into the shape of an iron, or anvil more times than he could remember (possibly as a result of all the concussions). The money was good, the Hollywood lifestyle was a little extravagant for his tastes, but the thrill was there every day and he was enjoying the variety of death defying moments. Then the call came from home. He was needed.
Things in the old house were desperate. New owners had taken over and they were less sloppy than the previous inhabitants. Biscuits were packed in plastic boxes. Cereal was sorted in airtight containers. And a large, ferocious pet had been installed. The population were slowing starving to death and they were too scared to explore to find alternative food sources for fear of the cat. The call had gone out for help and two willing heroes had returned to the house.