Dear Rachel-
 
Get used to the exuberant, inexplicable, spastic dancing.  Dances that
stop and start for no discernible reason, and often end only when your
fuzzie smacks into your walls, your furniture, or your shins.  It is an
expression of pure, unadulterated, triple-distilled weasel joy.  What
must the music that drives them to do this dance, that pounds in time and
tune with their tiny little hearts be like?  We can't hear it, but they
do.  And they just.  Can't.  STAND IT!  They MUST dance.
 
But it's not poofing.
 
Poofing is probably something that you will never experience first-hand,
and trust me, you're not missing much.  You know that nasty thing that
skunks do?  Ferrets can do it, too, to a lesser extent, unless they have
had a corrective operation.  Perhaps I shouldn't say corrective.  After
all, they ARE designed to emit a cloud of foul smell from tiny little
glands in their anus.  (Anuses?  What is the plural of *sshole in Latin
anyway?  Bungholuses?)
 
Maybe it's just God's idea of a joke.  I know that the Killian's think
it's danged funny!  They breed lovely weasels for sale at their outfit,
Zen's.  Intact, unaltered, factory equipped turbo-bunged weasels.  When
the weasel that I got from them (the late Sabrina the Bat-Biter) used to
get scared, surprised, angry, frazzled, peeved, irate, jealous, envious,
or just spiteful (she was really good at spite), her tail went out stiff,
and she emitted a little cloud of something that smelled like a
combination of cat urine and lemon pledge.
 
Blessedly, it dissipated in a very short period of time.  I never had to
take a bath in tomato juice before my husband would let me back up onto
the upholstered furniture.
 
Wanna see a grown man poof?  Hide his tools on him.  Works around here,
every time.
 
It's nasty, let me tell you.
 
Sincerely,
Alexandra in Massachusetts
[Posted in FML issue 4277]