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I had a roommate in college whose family raised ferrets.
Whenever we would go to her parents’ house for a visit, we’d be greeted upon entry, not only by a loving family, but a horrible odor.
It was, to quote Pro-Pain, the urban hardcore/rap-metal hybrid band of my misguided college youth: The Stench of Piss.
Yes, ferrets smell like pee pee. They make their owner’s house reek of a musky, urine smell that goes far beyond anything an innocent kitty litter box might create.
For this reason alone, I have always detested ferrets.
The aforementioned family had two brownish-grey ferrets and an albino that was supposed to be white, in theory, but always seemed to be the yellowish color one might associate with the teeth of a heavy smoker.
Or piss.
As my money was on piss, I wouldn’t go anywhere near those disgusting weasels.
I’ve recently finished reading a book called Bitten: True Medical Stories of Bites and Stings, written by Dr. Pamela Nagami. There was an entire chapter devoted to ferrets, reinforcing my belief that these animals should never have entered the realm of domestic pets.
The urine smell issue is never addressed- however- the teeny, tiny problem of EATING BABY FACES is mentioned.
Yes, you heard me. Eating… baby… faces.
(FACES!!!)
(OF BABIES!!!)
(NOOOOO!!!)
In the wild, ferrets attack suckling animals in their dens. Experts believe that when they attack a baby, it is possible they are attracted to the milk on the infant’s breath because of this instinct.
This theory really made me wonder what kind of a miserable creature makes its way in the world today by eating babies? What happened to Darwinism, and weeding out the sick, old animals of a species? I can get behind that. Hell, you’re practically doing them a genetic favor when you kill grandpa. But eating babies? Nope. Totally not cool.
I knew I had good instincts, hating ferrets my whole life. Worthless baby eaters.
An excerpt from the book Bitten: True Medical Stories of Bites and Stings, for your consideration:
“In 1988, physicians in Denver, Colorado reported three cases of severe facial injuries to infants from attacks by pet ferrets. All three involved babies less than five months old, left briefly unattended in their cribs. In one of the cases, a three-month-old girl was placed in her crib with her bottle. In just a few minutes, the family ferret managed to climb in and chew off forty percent of both her ears. Another patient in the series, a six-week-old boy, lost most of his left ear and, in another report, a baby girl lost her nose to a ferret attack.”
Reading this nearly made me lose my mind.
Sooooo… let me get this straight… you’re telling me there are earless, noseless, nearly-twenty-year-olds out there that have to answer “A ferret ate my face,” when they are asked “What happened?”
Oh… my. And I was whining to my mother about being up since four a.m. today. At least I actually get to have a nose and ears while I feel tired.
Another reason ferrets are dangerous is that they attack quite viciously, enabling them to do a large amount of damage to the victim in a short amount of time.
“Ferrets may launch rapid attacks when supervision is allowed to lapse, even for a few minutes. In June 2000, a ten-day-old girl was attacked by two pet ferrets that may have been attracted to the milk on the child’s breath. The child’s mother had let the ferrets out of their cage and had dozed off as she was watching television. A short time later, she awoke to her child’s cries and found the baby’s face covered with blood as a result of more than a hundred scratches, gashes and bites. Had the family dog not jumped into the crib to save the infant, the attack could easily have proved fatal.”
How much do we love dogs after reading that? Seriously- that dog had better be getting steak for dinner for the rest of its doggy life for that act of bravery. Good dog. (That’s what the farmers call a keeper.)
I’m a total cat person from way back, but reading that made me want to switch teams, or at least allow dogs on the playing field.
In one case, a ferret in a car slipped out of its cage and attacked a child in a car seat, lacerating the area around her eye. Another latched on to a sleeping five-year-old boy’s hand until the parents were able to pry it off. Many of the attacks were at a babysitter’s house and the parents were unaware that they kept pet ferrets. Until their beloved children’s faces were eaten, of course. (That’s what the farmers call a damn shame.)
Because of the attacks on children, and the fact that they are notorious carriers of rabies, ferrets are illegal in California, Massachusetts, South Carolina, Georgia, New Hampshire, New York City and Washington, D.C.
After reading the statistics, I would like to propose that they be declared illegal in every state- or at least in all states in which babies with faces to eat reside.
So, in summation: Ferrets SUCK.
Get a dog.
During my college years, I worked for the sandwich shop we all know and love as Subway. I am a Certified Sandwich Artist, so if you choose to have lunch at my house, fear not, for you are in creative and capable hands. If you pull out a stop watch and time me, I will put the allowable amount of black olives on six inches of your sandwich in record time. This is the test I passed which catapulted me to Certified Sandwich Artist status, a status that brought a tear of pride to my mother’s eye and put an accomplished spring in my young step, of this you can be certain.
(The allowable amount of black olives per six inches of sandwich was two rings. Two measly little black olive rings. Our managers would angrily scream “Food cost!” if we tried to give customers more in their presence, and for this reason, I still remember that back in the mid-nineties, those cherished olive rings were costing Subway three cents each. Yes, you heard me: THREE CENTS EACH. How did they manage to keep the doors open?)
I was in school all day, so I was forced to work the dreaded night shift in a college town. This meant that many drunken people my age would come into our restaurant for food and it was up to me to cater to their inebriated asses. More tomatoes? No problem. Extra mustard? You bet? More black olives? Ummm… okay, but don’t tell my manager. No, you can’t have my phone number… is this for here or to go? Can I get you anything else with that? Never mind- forget I asked. Yes, I have a boyfriend. Here’s your sandwich! Have a good night. (Mentally adding: “Asshole.”)
The after-bar-hopping drunks had an annoying habit of coming in for sandwiches minutes before we closed and taking forever to order, and by order, I mean gleefully order us around, barking out what they wanted on said sandwiches, while being incredibly rude and snickering amongst themselves at their “hilarious” audacity. (Paycheck from Subway? Check. Rent and bills paid? Check. Barely suppressed rage? Check.)
Adding to the stress of this situation was the fact that our register automatically spit out a reading of each hour’s business, the final one being at closing time. Once this reading printed, the register was no longer usable for the night. End game. Because of this, we would sometimes in the last few minutes need to hurry, or even ring up the person’s order, then make the sandwich, thusly confusing the alcohol-feebled minds of whomever we were serving by disturbing the intricate balance and complex order of the Subway system.
Sometimes we’d have to say: “Sorry- the register is closed, so we are closed…” to someone who squeaked in the door just as the final reading was printing. No register meant no ringing up, which meant no way to get money for the food, which meant no more sandwiches, which meant have fun at Denny’s, Drunkie.
I was closing the store alone one night when the register decided our day had ended with the last reading printout. A few raucous college guys got in before I could lock the door and wouldn’t go back out. One of them actually walked behind the counter where I stood, saying “I’ll make my own sandwich,” and wouldn’t leave until I threatened to call the police. The night shift at any job can be scary for a girl alone.
The night my co-worker stuck his dick in the BBQ beef was a night such as this.
His name was Jeff and I still remember him fondly, if somewhat oddly, for this memory. Light brown wavy hair, blue eyes and a few inches taller than my five-seven-and-a-half, he was an attractive, seemingly well-adjusted guy with a good sense of humor.
It had been one of those Parade of Drunk Assholes nights familiar to those forced to work in fast food by unfortunate economic situations. Just one after the other. Throngs of bastards. We were tired and we’d had it. It was finally two minutes to close, with the floors swept and mopped and all the food put away in the back. Wrung-out and exhausted, we were ready to go home stinking of new sandwiches to our cheap futons stinking of old sandwiches.
So of course, in walked a group of more drunk assholes, just minutes before the clock hit that magic number to freedom. They were condescending and rude, as usual.
An aside: This has always perplexed me and I often warn people against being rude to the other people who have access to the food they are about to ingest, because as a poor kid working in restaurants from way back, I’ve Seen Things. Things no girl should ever have to see. Things that make it hard for me to eat out to this day. KFC drumsticks dragged along greasy floors, then immediately served to mean customers, live roaches fried in the same fryer as the french fries… awful, terrible, disgusting Things. Be nice. Or you will be eating bug parts.
Perhaps customers were rude at Subway because they had a false sense of security derived from seeing the sandwiches being prepared. I will admit, the watchful eye of the customer kept many jerks from getting my personal favorite, the licked-finger-poked-into-their-food treatment on my part, but lord help the ones who were rude and getting it to go. As I put their sandwich in the to-go bag, I would, with a benign and friendly smile on my face, squeeze the ever-living fuck out of their food. It was my passive-aggressive coup de grace with an unsuspecting sandwich- and I relished every squishy second of it. It also made it very easy to force the required “Have a nice day!” out of my mouth in the direction of the undeserving.
So yes, this night Murphy’s Law prevailed, two minutes to close, group of drunk assholes. Nothing new. Or so I thought. We waited on them and one ordered a six inch BBQ beef sandwich. We already had everything put away, as we were about to close, so Jeff had to go to the back of the store, out of sight, to get the now-cold BBQ beef for the guy’s sandwich. He brought the bread back, covered with BBQ beef and we finished making the sandwiches.
The guys left with their food and Jeff turned to me and said excitedly; “I just stuck my DICK in that guy’s BBQ beef sandwich!!”
“Wha… what? You did what?” I was certain I’d heard him wrong.
“I stuck my dick in it! I went to the back to get the BBQ beef, put it in the bun, took out my dick and plopped it right into the meat! Then I wiped my dick off, put it back in my pants and brought the sandwich out here to finish making it.” He followed this tale of genitals and food with a strung-out, triumphant smile.
I was so shocked I could barely respond. It was the craziest thing I’d heard up to that point in my 19 years. It stuck with me throughout the years, and even as I later heard tales of crazier, even more bizarre acts by other humans, the Dick in the Sandwich story has retained a special, shuddering little place in my brain.
When I see BBQ beef, to this day, I think of Jeff. And his dick. Covered with itchy, sticky BBQ sauce. I wonder if he still remembers doing that. I wonder if, like me, he thinks of his dick in a sandwich when he sees BBQ beef. I wonder if he got home from work that night, had a beer, took a leak, noticed a spot of sauce he missed at work that night and had a secret little chuckle to himself right there in his bathroom. I really kind of hope so.
