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]