When reading Kos entries, I always enjoy reading the ones about people's pets. Dogs, cats... more dogs and cats... dogs and cats and the occasional snake or horse... and more cats... more dogs...
Don't get me wrong; I love both of those and have two cats myself. But-- ferrets! Where are the ferrets? Where are my beloved Mustela putorius furo? I currently have four and I've raised them for over twenty years.
Yesterday I was in a PetSmart, buying what I think of as Weasle Rinse, and I overheard a girl and her mother discussing the cute, bouncing hoard of baby ferrets that were doing their damndest to catch their attention. Some of the things they were saying were so blatantly wrong and eye-watering that I decided to write a bit about what it's like to cohabit with ferrets, the good and the bad, just in case any of you out there are thinking of doing just that.
I first became familiar with ferrets when my college roommate’s boyfriend snuck one into his dorm-room. Bandit, as he was called (the most common name for sable ferrets by far) stole my car-keys, my socks, the inner-soles of my shoes and my heart; I thought he was adorable. I also babysat him quite a bit while my roommate spent time with her boyfriend, and I got to know him fairly well.
Years later, I was given an adult ferret while I lived overseas in Germany; her name was Imp, she was about 3 years old, and had bitten her previous owners. We made friends and she lived out her life with me and my husband, a nervous, slightly aggressive ferret who loved us and nobody else.
My second ferret, though… When a friend who bred ferrets had a new litter born, I picked one out as a birthday present to myself. Tansey was cream-colored from head to toe, maskless and sweet-tempered and amazingly bright; she loved meeting people, figured out how to get into all the places in my apartment she shouldn’t have been able to invade, and made a place in my heart that has never been filled since; she lived to be ten years old, had several litters of beautiful kits, and taught me to love the species like nothing else. I owe her big time and miss her to this day; every ferret I’ve had since then is in debt to my Tansey for the love and care I give them.
Since then, there’ve been many weasles in the last twenty or so years (and yes, I know they’re not weasles; it’s an affectionate nickname—I call my little horde of four ferrets the ‘Weezulbois’, despite one of their members being female)—Meg and Sage, Rosey and Ivy, Thorny-girl, Rocket, Lavender, Motley, Ginger, Cori, Kit… They were all different, each and all little individuals in their own right, and I loved every one of them in their own way. My four that live with me now are Tanuki, Chai, Shima and Hanabi. Tan, Chai and Shima are males; Hanabi, the youngest, is a female.
If you ever thought that ferrets were all alike, let me dissuade you from that notion by a description of my Weezlebois. We’ll start with Tan, the eldest, a cream-and-grey boy of six years. Tan’s my bright one; he knows how to open all the cabinets, where I keep my mp3 player in my purse (he likes to steal it), and where I usually put my cup of tea. He knows that if he knocks the tea over I’ll notice, yell, and put him back in his room (my ferrets live in a spare room, not a cage; they aren’t really meant to live out their life in a wire enclosure only a few times the length of their bodies. Are you?) and he’s figured out that if he sneaks up and very carefully rests his paws on the edge, he can swipe quite a long drink before I catch him at it. Tan’s the one who runs past me when I open the ferret room door, checks out the hallway, and then runs back to get a snuggle; Tan’s the one who jumps up against my ankles like a very small dog until I pay attention and scritch his ears. And Tan’s the one who’ll lick my tears away when I’m unhappy.
Chai’s the next oldest; he’s five, a dark brown sable with a very perfect mask. He’s quiet, a gentle ferret who loves to be flipped over in your arms to have his belly scratched. Long and lanky, he’s sometimes overlooked by friends because of his peaceful nature and silent movements; but when I want to introduce somebody who’s never held a ferret before to my little ones, he’s the one I offer with the words, “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Shima’s less than two years old. Large, broad and stocky, he’s what some ferret-breeders call a ‘bear’, and his offwhite coat is thick and long. When he was a kit, he had a dark grey streak running from his first shoulderblades all the way to his tail, where it expanded to turn said tail into a solid grey handle. His name, Japanese for ‘stripe’, came from this; but now his streak begins at the base of his tail, pale grey instead of dark, and it gradually deepens until the very tip is solid black. Shima’s stone deaf; he has deep ruby eyes, and that often goes with a light-colored rubyeye. It doesn’t slow him down at all, though—he’s bouncy and playful and totally unafraid, an accomplished thief and clown who’s always willing to play tug-of-war or Blanket Monster. When you tickle his ears, he kicks both hind legs in pure pleasure and stretches up to kiss you on the nose.
Hanabi’s the youngest; her name means ‘fireworks’ and she’s my tiny little girl, less than a year old. She’s a light sable with generous white patches at ears, throat and belly; her tiny paws are tipped with white as if she had walked in a spill of paint. Only about 2/3 the size of the smallest of the boys, she flings herself on each and every one of them (and my 17-pound cat, Bob) with total abandon, leaping and bouncing in the Weasle War Dance so wildly that she frequently runs into things—chair-legs, walls, other ferrets, me. She loves chin-scritches but can only bear to be still for ten seconds or so before she absolutely HAS to get down, because there’s an entire world of things out there to sniff and taste and steal, you know?
There’s one major rule with ferrets, and I wish this was more widely known by prospective owners: ferrets require company. They HAVE to have other ferrets, or other pets at least; they’re colony animals, designed to live in groups. And, you know, there’s absolutely no difference from a personal perspective between a ferret who lives alone and the only ferret left in the entire world; if they never see another of their species again, then that’s a good chunk of Ferret Hell. They need companions like no other animal, and there’s a notable difference between the lifespan of a solitary ferret vs. those in company.
So if you’re looking for a single pet, get a cat or a dog (though I think they need company too.) Ferrets can manage alone—so very many of them have to—but having more than one makes a huge, huge difference to their happiness.
There are other things to consider if you’re planning on getting a Personal Weasle or two (or three or four… there’s this thing called Ferret Math.) For instance, they have short little legs and it’s a very big world, and… well, when the litter-box is three rooms away and you really need to go… Do I have to draw you a picture here? They’re tidy creatures; they’ll find a corner somewhere, and if there’s a litter box they’ll generally use that (mine like to use the cats’ boxes when they can.) But let’s face it, they will poop when it’s necessary, and ferret-owners just have to deal with it on occasion.
Another consideration: ferret-proofing. Basic rule of thumb: if their head can fit through, so can the rest of their bodies, squeezing through like toothpaste. We’re talking about a critter that can collapse its shoulderjoints at will, flatten its very flexible ribcage, double back on itself and who regularly sleeps in the most improbable positions imaginable. Hind feet on top of head, zzzzz… So when you have a ferret, you get used to blocking that hole under the sink that leads into the wall, or closing that window with the screen that pushes out so easily. You watch carefully EVERY time you go in or out through an outside door, and you come to understand that a lost ferret is, most often, a dead ferret very quickly. One of my past ferrets, Lavender, was lucky; she showed up in the shipping/receiving department of a Home Depot, emaciated and dehydrated. Her droppings were found in a crate that had shipped from Omaha—how she got in there is anybody’s guess; she was an elderly ferret who was only with me for two years, but I did my best to make her new home a happy one. The point? Keep your weasles safe; the world outside is full of stray cats, interested dogs, hawks, malevolent children and cars—it isn’t kind to a domesticated innocent less than a foot and a half long. And it’s your responsibility to care for them the best you can.
A final consideration: if you have dogs (or aggressive cats, or llamas or wombats or whatever), keep in mind that something that moves like prey but has the teeth of a predator may not mix well with them. So keep this in mind; one of my cats loves them and was raised among them, but the other thinks they’re vermin and should Please Move Somewhere Else. She won’t attack them, but she’ll certainly give them a good swat if they step out of line.
A word about their diet… Ferrets are transitioning animals, a carnivore gradually evolving into an omnivore; mine live primarily on high-protein dry cat chow supplemented with ferret vitamin-treats, raisins, stealthily sampled cups of hot tea, my dinner when I leave it too long, Cheetos, candy they steal from my purse, and any fruit they can get their little thieving paws on. They tend to have very specific likes and dislikes; Tansey loved blueberries, Thorny-girl adored peppermint candies, and just about all of them will damn near mug a person to get hold of the bubblegum-flavored pink Amoxicillin that most vets prescribe for colds or other illnesses. Ferrets need high-protein foods, since they process what they eat in about three hours. You can buy ferret chow at most pet stores these days, though mine do not like it at all— no, they want the cat-chow! And that’s fine, so long as what they get has a low ash-content and a protein percentage exceeding 38%. Don’t let them get hold of chocolate; it’s very bad for them.
One last thing… and that’s their lifespans. The oldest ferret I ever knew lived to be nearly fourteen; those of mine who’ve lived to die of old age have made it to twelve. The biggest killer aside from accidental crushing (beware of foldable easy-chair lounges and washers/dryers!) for ferrets is a adrenal disease, which manifests first in hair-loss and fatigue. It can be treated by surgery and medication, but not with great success; it’s an inherited illness and usually strikes when a ferret carrying the potential has reached middle age. There are other illnesses too, the dreaded ‘green diarrhea’ virus and even the common flu; most ferrets live healthy lives, but vet visits and checkups are very necessary.
So… that’s a short, rambling overview of a very involved subject. My little carpetsharks have been with me through thick and thin; I’ll never regret submitting to my Weasle Overlords—they’re remarkable creatures with an enormous amount of joy in them, and they want to share it with you. And steal your tea, and your socks, and your car-keys…
But that’s okay. They’re worth it.