A Warning to Ferry Lincoln: Life With Weasels

I put down my xbox controller and shot a glance into Ferry Lincoln's piss sodden cage. Amid the stained red blanky and his composting wood chips, he could not be seen.

I screamed.

How could I? I thought. How could I have abandoned my ferret the way I found him? Sick with cancer, hobbling around the streets of Allston, blind as Helen Keller and even more deaf. Yes, I thought this is how Ferry Lincoln became mine: someone let him out of the cage and then took a bike ride to Newton Center and back.

I hustled out of the living room and began overturning backpacks, my powerdrill box, a pile of clothes in Phil's room. My wee Lincoln! I shouted to him, hopping to break his hearing barrier and signal to his ferret mind. Surely if he could smell like moonshine fermenting in a construction worker's portopotty in the heat of former Rhodesia, he had other superpowers. Latent superpowers.

I desperately bungled my way over to his favorite hiding place and tore the sheets off Phil's bed. But I despairingly knew in my heart Ferry Lincoln would never climb into such a disheveled chamber; Ferry Lincoln is a gentlemen.

I drew in deep a smell of air, hoping to locate him using the smells from his anal gland. (Please do not tell my room mates that it is his anal glands that give him his distinct bouquet, because they do not know. Fools! Where else could such a malodorous experience come from? Hmm? Idiots!) Alas, my roman nose could not place the little weasel.

I called to him using the English accent I think he perceives most readily. "Ferry Linlcoln!" I cried in Northern English phonetics. He responded silently, if he responded at all. I rapped on my room mates door. "Come in," he said. "My ferret is missing," I said. "Oh shit," he said. We tore through the house. I peered under my bed and then I peered atop it. I threw my boxers and hoodie to the ground.

My heart sank. He lay there underneath my fitted sheet.

"YOU FILTHY BASTARD!" I reached under my freshly cleaned fitted sheet and yanked him out from his resting place on the raw mattress, my nice fresh mattress. "YOU DISGUST ME. I'LL HAVE TO CLEAN THOSE AGAIN." I shook him for emphasis. This is how they taught Helen Keller. Screams and violent shakes, that thick dumb bitch. I tossed him back into his diarhheal den.

Watch yourself, Ferry Lincoln, for if you ever sleep in my sheets, you will find the front door open and your bogged cage on the sidewalk.