Dear Geronimo: That big white plastic thing with the intriguing smells is NOT a playground. Mom does not appreciate it when you shred the plastic bag, nor when you spread dirty litter all over the floor. Please stop knocking the garbage can over.
Dear Geronimo: Okay, I give up. I have removed the garbage can from the ferret room. I’ve owned ferrets for 25 years and never had one that could knock a can, filled with 40 lbs of used litter and 30” tall, over with one swipe of a paw. You win. The can will now be in the front hall while you’re out playing.
Dear Geronimo: It’s considered poor form to climb the cage and leap onto the top of the piano, knocking the pictures off the wall, squirming through the cubes of bedding, and knocking all the stuff off in the process. I know you were quite proud of yourself, but that can of Pepsi was a disaster, since it landed on top of your brother. He wasn’t too happy and managed to spread sticky soda all over the floor. I’m sure he will have a few words with you after his bath. I made sure to tell him it was your fault.
Dear Geronimo: What part of “don’t climb the cage” do you not understand? Okay, fine! I will pull the cage out into the middle of the floor from now on to prevent further piano adventures. Did you *have* to knock off the new tube of Laxatone? I know you don’t like it, but your brothers do and they put about 200 holes in it. If you want me, I’ll be on my hands and knees scrubbing dried goo from under the couch. Thanks bunches.
Dear Geronimo: Yes, you are a smart boy. Yes, you are adorable. But just running and standing in the litter box does not get you the treat. You need to perform before you get the treat. Jumping out of the box and doing that in the corner will not endear you to your momma. Aiming it so it goes down the heater vent also does NOT get you skill points.
Dear Geronimo: What have you been eating lately? Did you suddenly grow another muscle and feel the need to try it out? Did you really have to jump the fence and terrorize that little old lady ferret? It’s not nice to drag the elderly under the couch and stash them on your booty pile. Naughty boy!
Dear Geronimo: Please, for the love of God would you stop opening the drawers in the kitchen? I know you don’t eat things like bread and potatoes, but your brothers seem to think they’re intriguing. Let’s not tell daddy his breakfast toast was rescued from under the couch, okay? And please tell your brother it’s not going to win points with mom if he hides vegetables in his litter box.
Dear Geronimo: My dear, dear fur-child. It’s obvious some light bulb has gone off in your head. Yes, those cupboard doors do open to fascinating and exciting vistas. I’ve owned ferrets for 25 years and not one has figured out how to insert their toenails into the crack and pull the door open. But you have. Oh boy have you figured it out! The one wasn’t enough. You of course had to branch out to drawers, too. You let your brothers in on the fun, and the one hid slices of bread, while the other worked on a new ferret vodka setup with my potatoes. You supervised from inside the drawer. How … managerial of you. Please stop.
Dear Geronimo: My delightful scamp. I knew you were unhappy that I figured out how to block the drawers. I told you they did not contain any of those things you crave. No mice, no rats, no quail. I suppose you thought I’d merely hidden them elsewhere and that is why you crossed the room and opened the doors under the sink. Did you find any mice? No you did not. You found the garbage can, however, and shredded the bag in a most artistic manner. You even smelled artistic, in a bohemian sort of way, after you tunneled around in the stinky trash.
Dear Geronimo: Okay, now I simply must put my foot down. I’m sure you were bored, after I managed to stop your forays into the cupboards and drawers. I know your life was dull and meaningless, but did you have to pull up the floor vent and go exploring in the ductwork? Really? I nearly had a heart attack, picturing you roasted in the flames of the furnace, while you pranced merrily along, toenails clicking on the pipes. I chased you around for what seemed like hours as you played hide and seek with me.
I’m delighted you finally exited the vent system (apparently you understand the word “mousies” just fine). I didn’t even mind that you were covered in soot. But really, honestly, did you have to draw every living creature in the house with that godforsaken screaming when I went to rinse you off? You play in the dog’s water dish, for God’s sake! You upend the darned thing almost every night! You leave trails of water all across the floor, making little mini-puddles for your brothers to lap up! And you are so frightened of a little running water to let loose with a Banshee wail that would curdle the blood of any werewolf within three counties? Was that necessary?
I hope you’ve gotten this all out of your system for a while now. And don’t even THINK of looking at the vent. Daddy drilled holes in the floor and screwed it down. So there! What? No! Do NOT look at the vent in the living room! Look! Mousies! Lots and lots of mousies! Geronimo!