My ex-girlfriend’s ferrets were (are) the devil’s henchmen.
They are the singular cause of her ‘ex’ status. More specifically, I demanded that she choose between me and the ferrets and now I’m single. At first I was upset, but over time I’ve come to realize that having chosen satan’s rats over me, she was both a poor judge of character and a blasphemer, so I feel better. Sort of. My therapist thinks I’m making progress.
I’d agreed to watch the little bastards over the course of an evening while the ex was at a retreat reorganizing her chi through the utilization of chanting and beating drums. At the time, I was 100% down with being the helpful boyfriend, always willing to lend a hand in whatever way made her life easier, and I figured that caring for what were more or less two caged rodents would be about as simple as pet sitting gets. She brought them both over to my place in a single large cage, constituting one of the rare instances that they weren’t free to run unencumbered. She was extremely liberal with her ferrets, they being allowed to eat off of her plate with impunity and having unrestricted use of the remote control.
This was my house, though. My rules. After she left, I looked at them in their cage and told them, ‘Tonight you live like normal pets. This is a No Spoiled Ferret zone.’
Hindsight is an unforgiving hell bitch.
At some point in the evening, I recall hearing a small commotion from their vicinity in the kitchen and upon checking it out found the cage door opened, a distinct lack of ferret inside, and a small string tied to a magnet, which was still stuck to the now-disengaged door latch. Marveling at their ingenuity and ability to tie what appeared to be a perfect midshipmen’s hitch, I was yanked back to reality by the power suddenly going out and everything going black. Hearing a small *click* behind me, I whirled around and saw one of the ferrets standing on the stove and holding my camping flashlight under it’s furry little chin. This was disconcerting.
The sound of skittering over hardwood signaled the movement of his partner in crime, so I followed the sound toward the living room until my nose picked up the scent of gasoline. I then heard what seemed to be a match strike and for the first time, glimpsed ferret #2 holding what appeared to be a miniature torch. Standing upright on its hind legs directly in front of my ottoman and lit only by the flame it was holding in its outstretched paw, it stared at me, then tilted its head slightly to one side and with the slightest flick, tossed the match up and behind it. The match flipped through the air, briefly and dramatically illuminating its surroundings, until finally landing on the ottoman.
It was then that I realized whence came the gasoline smell. As the ottoman transformed into a fireball, I began screaming like a wee girl as I reached under the sink for a bucket, filled it, and proceeded to make the situation worse by throwing water on the fire. The flames having now spread to the chair behind the ottoman, I raced downstairs, grabbed a fire extinguisher, had the presence of mind to turn the power back on, and raced upstairs in time to see ferret #1 on the stove signaling ferret #2 through the use of semaphore flags.
By the time I’d put out the fire, I heard something in the den and arrived to find ferret #2 spray painting racial slurs all over my wall. As I rushed over to de-can the ferret, I felt a stream of something wet hitting my back and legs. I turned in time to see ferret #1 pumping a super soaker and subsequently hosing me down with what appeared to be cheap Costco whisky.
Much of the rest of the evening was spent working through the five stages of grief while trying to remove from my walls various unflattering (and poorly spelled) descriptions of our Asian and African brothers and sisters. During this time, the ferrets sat on the floor next to my smoldering furniture watching reruns of Mary Tyler Moore on TVLand, while eating saltines. By the time the ex arrived, I and my surroundings advertised me as a booze-fueled racist pyromaniac who allowed, nay encouraged, small animals to eat too much sodium and watch 70s television.
I’m still in therapy is what I’m saying.
Sir @ November 22, 2011