Dear Ferret Folks-
 
I knew that something was wrong as soon as I got out of bed and walked
into the living room.  The rug was out of place, crooked on the floor,
and rumpled up.  The dog's chair (yes, she has her own, it spares the
sofa) was out of place, the back no longer flush against the wall.  The
magazine stand was likewise out of place.  Strewn across the living room
floor were glossy mailing advertisers, spoons, socks, pens, and empty Ben
and Jerry's cartons.  I saw stale rice cakes and candy wrappers.  All the
things that Switch the Kit and Sabrina the Bat-Biter collect.
 
In short, it looked as if some mighty force had upended the room and
shaken it a few times to get at the ladies favourite stash.  That force
could only have been my husband, who goes to work much earlier in the
morning than I do.  But what on earth was he looking for?  The TV remote?
No, that was visible.  A pen to write with?  No, there were several in
the cup of pens I keep out of weasel reach on a high shelf.  Money?  No,
there were a few folded bills still on the dining room table.
 
Something great and terrible had clearly happened, and I had to wait all
day to learn the details.  I knew only that whatever had happened, it
made my husband trash the weasel's stash in a rage.
 
I learned the truth that evening.  It seems that the night before, my
husband had gone out of his way buy himself a fancy pair of rubber
insoles to slip into his work shoes.  He carefully cut them to fit.  He
put them in.  He left the shoes on the living room floor and went to bed.
 
You have a pretty good idea of what happened next, don't you, all you
ferret slaves out there?  He got up in the morning, rushed around getting
ready for work.  The last thing he did on his way out the door was grab
his work shoes...which now had no insoles whatsoever.  They had been
stashed in the night by weasels.
 
Well, I'm sure he swore under his breath, but it wasn't the end of the
world, right?  He knew where the ladies stashed stuff.  In the living
room, between the arm of the sofa and the wall.  It was just a matter
of raiding their stash.
 
Except it wasn't.  He found all of the things I mentioned eartler, but no
brand new rubber insoles, and the clock was ticking....He wound up moving
literally every major piece of furniture we had until he finally found
them.  Not in the living room, but I guess in the auxiliary stash for
really special treasures beneath the yellow sofa in the reading room.  A
spot that we never knew about, until my husband learned the hard way.  He
was 15 minutes late to work.  It took me at least that long to put all
the furniture back and smooth the rug, and put the regular stash stuff
back in it's place behind the arm of the sofa.
 
Bad, BAD weasel!
 
Alexandra in Massachusetts
[Posted in FML issue 3856]