Dear Ferret Folks-
I would like to think that I still have a few secrets left, some slight
air of mystery that might spice up my reputation. Instead I find that
my life is an open book. I am humiliated, on some level. I may as well
wear a scarlett 'F' on my shirt for ferret-slave.
I went to work today as I do five days a week, wearing the dark green
company work shirt, the short sleeved one with the store logo on the
pocket in bright yellow letters. I wear it as I stand behind a cash
register and sell things to people. Someome's got to do it. They also
serve who only stand and wait, thus saith the Lord.
And I was standing and waiting. For a dumpy little man in a t-shirt that
strained across his pot-belly to count out the proper change in coins. I
was trying...well...I thought I was doing a pretty good job of
serruptitiously picking a thin film of fine gray hairs from the front of
my workshirt. You know the ones. The ones that collectively constitute
weasel lint. Somebody with a pointy little head had taken a nap on that
workshirt. This happens from time to time.
As I was waiting the dumpy little man counting out pennies asked me "Got
a cat?" I reflexively said "No", as that is the truth. (I have had them
in the past, in fact I once had nine cats, but I'm much better now. I
can stop anytime. Really. Other people have more cats than I did. I
was a social cat-owner. I never owned cats alone. If you worked as hard
as I did in those days, you'd probably have had nine cats, too. Hell, I
DESERVED nine cats, and I could handle them, too, unlike some people.)
I expected his questioning to end right there, as I had volunteered no
information other than a brusque, off-putting "No." Today I don't have
to have any cats, or make any excuses for the number of cats I have and
I am greatful for this One Day at a Time.)
I was so wrong. He was not yet done with me. In fact, I'd have to say
he saw right through me, as he said with a sly, knowing intonation, "Oh,
ferrets...."
HOW DID HE KNOW? What gave me away? I wanted to sniff myself to see
if I was perhaps wafting clouds of weasel-scent into the air with every
movement, but I was too self-conscious. How could this dumpy little
man know about my secret life? This little man who didn't even have
forty-seven cents in exact change, whose t-shirt showed a crescent of
pale, hairy belly at the bottom like a slice of albino watermelon? I
felt utterly transparent, and somehow, well, judged. Violated. He knew
of my secret addiction, and even named it out loud.
After he left the store I broke down. I sniffed myself, I admit it. I
could detect no obvious weasel-scent, but then I had this really paranoid
thought...What if I am so accustomed to that musty mustellid odor that I
can't even detect it anymore? Do I go through all my days smelling like
a two-inch wide racoon that loves raisins? Does everyone around me know?
My co-workers? Customers? EVERYBODY?
I'm going to go downstairs now, to my in-law's apartment and pat their
cat, Tiger. Just for a little while. I'm not going to bring him upstairs
or even rub his belly, just stroke his back a few times. Nobody will ever
know.
Alexandra in Massachusetts
[Posted in FML issue 3824]
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