Dear Ferret Folks-

Caff-Pow and the one pound canister of yellow corn meal? Why, that was
merely an annoyance. That's why vacuum cleaners have such large bags,
I guess. But the other day he treated me to the *worst* mess that any
ferret has ever handed to me in my decade-plus with ferrets.( I do have
to acknowledge here the lady on Facebook whose ferrets got into the
enormous container of cooking oil. That is just...unspeakable.)

Well, I have a bread making machine. It is a good friend. It makes a
two pound loaf of bread in an hour flat. After it runs through its
cycle it has to cool down for about twenty minutes before it can bake
the next loaf. (Or make dough, or make pasta, or perform its other
wonders.) I gathered my ingredients and made the first loaf. It wasn't
very good. Every now and then things just don't work the way they
should, especially when I experiment. That loaf ended up on the mulch
pile for the chickens, who probably got completely *issed on the yeast
on such a hot day. Chickens are *not* good drunks.

I still really wanted some bread. So I cleaned out the metal inner
baking pan liner that looks like a...loaf of bread standing on end.
(Imagine that.) And I got out the flour, the salt, the olive oil, the
sugar and the yeast. These thing have to go into the metal pan in a
particular order along with some warm water. I left the liner full of
ingredients on the kitchen island by itself while the machine cooled
down enough to cycle through a second time.

Then I let the ferrets out.

I have no excuse to offer. What followed was a hell of my own making,
and completely predictable.

I heard a metallic BANG! That was the liner being knocked from the
kitchen island and falling onto the floor. It of course spewed a
mixture of wet flour and oil and salt and sugar and yeast. Everywhere.
I ran into the kitchen to find Caff-Pow on the kitchen island covered
with...you know the drill by now. Wet flour and oil and salt and sugar
and yeast. He saw me and decided that he was in trouble. So he ran. He
leaped down into the dog's velvety green arm chair, the one that backs
up against the kitchen island. He left white gooey flour tracks across
the upholstery. Then he ran across the floor, both hardwood and
carpeted. He cowered beneath the velvety green sofa with Todd, who,
knowing me better from his longer association with hoomins realized
that this was a very *bad* thing indeed. Caff-Pow knew he had Gone Too
Far, but did not yet realize the severity of his infraction. There
would be consequences. Oh, yes.

For you see, after I scrubbed at the velvety green upholstery of the
dog's chair to keep the ferret prints from setting like plaster for all
eternity, I simply left the rest of the mess and got down on the floor
and chased Caff-Pow until I had him. I was not trying to punish him,
this was a hoomin's fault. It's that he had the potential to leave yet
*more* of those white gooey otter-sized tracks all over the rest of my
house to dry and set like plaster. The kitchen floor? The counter?
Those were static messes that could wait. Caff-Pow had to be dealt
with. Immediately. Before things got worse.

Things got worse. Catching him was no easy matter. And he was covered
with (say it along with me, now!) wet flour and oil and salt and sugar
and yeast. His undercarriage and gentlemanly regions were caked with
it. The evidence of our struggle ran from one end of the house to the
other. And once I had him, the struggle only changed emphasis. Now that
I had him I had to *clean* him.

The theater of battle changed from the kitchen and living room to the
bathroom. I was wrapped only in a light bathrobe which I managed to
shuck without dropping the three and a half pounds of *extremely*
displeased weasel. I stepped into the tub with Caff-Pow and turned
on the shower. It started out a bit chilly. This had the effect of
rendering the weasel even *more* displeased. I was reminded of his
close genetic ties to the wolverine.

Caff-Pow had to be moistened and lathered, several times with special
attention given to his undercarriage and gentlemanly regions. There
is probably some Biblical injunction against this in the Book of
Deuteronomy, perhaps Leviticus, but I digress...Caff-Pow was not
pleased. An hour later, when he was completely dry I had to pin him
down and remove the last little bits of plaster from his nether
regions. Caff-Pow was not pleased. I had to clean the kitchen island,
the kitchen floor, the metal baking liner, along with good chunks of
the living room floor (with special emphasis given to the undercarriage
of the velvety green sofa) and I was not pleased. Todd fled, and was
not seen for hours.

Never again.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6429]