Every so often, I have the audacity to believe I live in my own home. That this is my space, that I have sovereignty over my environment, and that—should I feel the urge—I could, say, sit at my desk without being swarmed, chewed, or launched upon by small, musky missiles of chaos.
And then I remember: I have eight ferrets.
Let me introduce the cast of this daily sitcom from hell. There’s Gracie, the one who acts like she pays rent and dares me to question her every movement. Pubes, who lives up to her name in both appearance and attitude. Kween, who knows she’s royalty and demands tribute in stolen pens and hair ties. Sofie, Wings, and Trixie form what I like to call the Toe Mafia—they don’t care if you’re barefoot or wearing slippers, they will find your feet and make you regret having them. Bear and Sheamus, the stunt doubles from a rejected Jackass reboot, exist solely to climb unstable surfaces and then yeet themselves off like furry, gravity-defying lemmings.
I have tried everything.
I’ve blocked holes, sealed cords, elevated my desk like it’s a sacred relic. I have child-proofed drawers they have no business being interested in. I have hidden snacks, covered trash cans, locked cabinets, and still—still—I look away for two seconds and someone is dangling from a tabletop like a tiny, reckless chandelier.
There are bite marks on everything. My mic cord is frayed from an attempted assassination. The underside of my desk has been scratched so violently I’m convinced they’re trying to dig an escape tunnel. I once caught Wings inside the back panel of my cabinet. I don’t even know how he got there. He looked proud. I said a bad word with my finger.
And the noise. My god, the noise.
You think working with ferrets nearby is cute? It’s not. It’s psychological warfare. Every fifteen minutes there’s a sound—thump, scratch, clatter, scream—and you have to decide: do I investigate, or do I accept that something is already broken and it’s too late? Spoiler: it’s usually too late. One time I ignored the noise and Sheamus emerged from behind the desk wearing a fur coat of fuzzballs, lint, and even a stray pipe cleaner.
Every time I make an adjustment, they regroup. They stare at it. They test it. They find new angles. It’s like living with a furry Ocean’s Eleven cast that doesn’t speak English but understands spatial engineering.
And yet... I adore them.
I can’t get work done, my power strip smells like Bandit’s Revenge, and my feet have permanent emotional trauma from surprise toe attacks, but I wouldn’t trade it. They make me laugh when I want to cry. They chase each other with such joyful abandon that I forgive the destruction. They climb into my hoodie when I’m tired and nap like I’m a living, wheezing hammock.
