The trouble with Ferrets is they’re weasels not mice,
and sneaky, not nice.
The trouble with Ferrets is they’re trouble all ‘round,
always making a move, never making a sound
“Oh, for crying out loud! And what’s this? He’s left the door to his cage open again. It virtually hangs from a single hinge as is… with woodchips getting tracked all over the flat. I could honestly wring his neck if he had one. And are those his favorite puppet pants slung over the chair?… as if he couldn’t take the time to hang them up over the feed tray as I asked him to. No, he’s too busy interviewing oligarchs over a drink… or so he says. I know he’s back at that paper again, although you wouldn’t have guessed it from the masthead. Not that I pay it any heed beyond the occasional necessity of sopping up spills with it… or stuffing pieces of those now glossy colored pages into the cracks of a drafty window frame.”
She notices The Ferret’s laptop recharging on the kitchen counter in screen-saver mode, blows a strand of split-ended hair out of her face and leans into the pesky contraption’s dark screen with the malevolent curiosity that only wives and stray dogs are afflicted with.
“And look at all these fucking emails – hundreds of them, stacked one on top of the other in the mailbox. Is the delete button on this thing broken or what?”
She opens one.
“Hey Tomasz, let’s meet for coffee soon to discuss that issue that came up… not that I brought it up.”
Then another…
“Pixie Stick is clearly not shouldering her share of the Vox Populi, so you might want to consider hiring someone else… for cheaper that is… who will work harder… save us the trouble. I’ll be out in the hall smoking a sissy cigarette if you want to discuss the matter further.”
And then…
“I don’t know if I got the right email address, and quite frankly I DON’T CARE. Are you the one who mentioned my name to Mr. X with regard to a certain ‘on-again-off-again shady business deal’ is the way I believe that it was put? That cost me a pretty penny, you little @#$%…! Now, I’m not sure what you look like… Heck, are you still even a journalist…? No matter… First I’m gonna … and then shove it up your misshapen and sadly flabby … And don’t think I won’t do it!”
She flips another strand of hair out of her face, already well-worn from years of domestic duty – atop a fairly demanding work life and nuptial commitments beyond any contemporary understanding of marriage. Dirty dishes, dirty diapers, and little relief outside of weekly sorties to a basement bar.
‘I knew I’d married a rat,’ she thinks, ‘got used to living with a weasel, but the cat and mouse version of the husband and wife game has gotten old. What’s more, there’s less and less cheese coming into our cubby hole these days.’
She opens another email.
“Calling all cars, calling all cars, be on the lookout for a fat man leaving Kyiv in a hurry, nyuh, nyuh.”
It’s from Welsh Losser.
“My bags are all packed and I am too, like a canned tuna freshly plucked from this former Soviet fishbowl, nyuh, nyuh. No need to see me off. The plane just won’t wait. The boys at Handwriting International say I’m to start my new job like ‘a SAP’, nyuh, nyuh. All work and no play makes Welsh a dull boy, but better that than an unemployed old expatriate!
“So it’s stateside for yours truly, a new adventure in my old stomping ground. Too bad you couldn’t come with me. The offer of a place in my suitcase just expired. You’ve been pushed down the seating list by a six pack of extra-large Hanes and as many pairs of black socks, nyuh, nyuh. So long, see you in the funny pages… or maybe in one of the chapters of my next e-book.”
And then another one – three weeks later…
“Howdy from Hoboken!
“Long time no hear. I hope you’re busier than I’ve been… which ain’t very, believe me. I feel like a lump on a log that not even a lumberjack could love, nyuh, nyuh. New Jersey’s great if you’re a suicide tourist, nyuh, nyuh. Those boys at Handwriting could use a course in personnel management, to be sure. I got all expenses paid, all right… by me! I still haven’t got my first work assignment either, and am beginning to smell a rat… in addition to the ones I see daily at this motel where I’m staying. And speaking of rats, guess who I saw at the local 7-Eleven? No, you won’t believe it… really. Well, I’ll just leave you in suspense, not least because you haven’t even responded to my first email.”
Still leant uncomfortably over The Ferret’s laptop, she begins to rifle through the seemingly bottomless pit of emails that fill his MailBox, with each movement of the mouse moving closer to the present.
“Please excuse the absence of a greeting,
“This would ordinarily be considered rude, but frankly I don’t give a fuck. That’s right, you heard me.
“What, you’re surprised? Oh, please. Be henceforth informed that I am no longer gainfully employed in the so-called service industry and therefore feel no obligation to maintain a semblance of décor. Don’t expect any more corny jokes, either.
“Am I angry? No. How about hungry, humiliated and broke? Well, yes! But do rest assured that I have options, however unsavory, and certainly beyond description in an email. Suffice it to say that this lapdog’s got teeth, and a bloodhound’s nose. Why, I could tear the seat out of a mailman’s pants, chew the leg off a door-to-door salesman…”
Unsettled by the sound of rustling woodchips, The Ferret’s wife terminates her Internet snooping, smooths out her apron and begins to wonder whether her husband has returned home drunk.
Filed November 15, 2015