the business of ferrets, by chris miller

diminutive dervish
arches her back,
wary of the many predators
lurking in my house,
looking for things to pilfer

scuttling on her tiptoes,
sneaky, like a curly backed snake –
in fact, she slinks around the office
as i write this, looking to lift
my mundane ideas
and hide them somewhere safe.

that slipper you're missing
is probably behind the couch,
along with sundry tiny items
the compulsive creature
felt within her right to hide,
it's her business, really,

as she pounces around me,
sneering her teddy bear face
punctuated with a tiny pink frown,
challenging the animals
many times her size,
performing
a little vaudeville skit
with the cat
on my kitchen floor,
and, like a plucky jester
she cackles and runs up the stairs –
one of those old slinky toys in reverse.

i wonder if the defensive posturing
is all an act,
or if she really feels at odds
with the rest of the animal kingdom.
she ritualistically removed
the eyes from all of her stuffed toys,
perhaps out of spite
due to her own poor eyesight.

the recipient of life
as a ferret
and its attendant insanity
is more business than I can handle.
she knows to fight her fate is not apparent.
it's the business of ferrets
busyness and shenanigans for all.