It's official. One
more week until I have to give up my pets.
All right, so they're not really my pets, but they are furry, I do have to take care of them,
and I do have to undo the bag they're in so they can breathe properly. I'm even thinking of naming them: Muffy and Fluffy … Frick and Frack … Laurel
and Hardy … Chip and Dale.
They're a pair of mink stoles. They belong to a friend. And they're my buddies.
That's right, my buddies.
Every morning I say, "Hello, minks, how ya doin'?"
They don't answer, of course. Maybe they do. Maybe they're purring because they're happy
to be out of storage and back into civilization. They don't appear to plotting anything illegal
or sinister. I think I can trust
them. They don't appear dangerous nor
aggressive. They're definitely not the
pit bulls of the fur world.
They don't eat my food while I'm at work, sit on my couch
watching television, nor make long-distance phone calls to their Siberian
relatives. As a matter of fact, they're reasonable house guests.
They have impeccable taste.
Well, of course they do, they're minks.
Duh!
Even though I keep them in the bag (end open), I have seen them in their
natural state. It's true, I really
have. When I picked them up, the sales
associate brought them out very lovingly and made sure they were properly
bundled. I was even berated for the way
I was carrying them. I tried to carry
them by the hangers, but she said, "Oh, no! You must drape them over your arm!!!"
My arm? Won't that hurt them? Wait. They're
… coats … they're not … really … Oh my
freaking god, I've lost my mind.
In one week, Chip and Dale will have a new home. When their real mom comes to get them, they'll
be officially moving from New England to Florida. I sure hope they like the climate change.
If not, they can always stay here with me.
