When ferocious ferret love upends a relationship, Harmony the Demon Dog and Carlos de la Muerte argue the proper path to comfort and happiness.
Dear Fake Life Coaches,
My wife’s ferret is in love with me and I don’t know what to do. Shawna rescued Shnookums from an illegal ferret farm and he became her instant best bud. At first, I found the smell and nonstop baby talk kind of annoying, but I overlooked it because, well, happy wife happy life, am I right?
Then I realized Shnookums was a terrorist. Every time I touched Shawna, he either pooped in my shoes or attacked me. The little f#@ker even cruised around inside the furniture and popped through the cracks like a crazed chomping gator. My ankles and elbows looked like I lost control of my weed whacker.
My wife blamed it on my beautiful beard, said Shnookums had PTSD because the ‘mean old farmer’ had facial hair. So what? You know how long it took me to find the right balance of balms and oils? A year. My face was a lusciously soft work of art. But Shawna made me shave. For a terrorist ferret.
She also made me bring home treats and toys every day for a week, which sorta backfired. Now Shnookums snuggles with me in my recliner and poops in her shoes. Shawna got so upset, she took off to her sister’s. How do I get her to forgive me and Shnookums so we can be a happy trio?
Signed, Scarred for Love
One word, Scarred. Treats. Yes, yes, crates of them. All flavors. Liver, bacon, beef, chicken…
The word you are looking for, Scarred, is love. You must profess your love for Shawna. Hurry. Go to her, mi amigo. Ride a stallion, yell her name from the sidewalk.
Wait, wait, you’re forgetting the most important thing.
Ah, yes, flowers. Bring one dozen—make that two dozen—long-stemmed red roses, tied in white lace.
No, dweebman. You’re forgetting my bro, Shnookums.
Good thinking, perrito. Strap the weasel to your manly chest in a hand-tooled leather pouch.
Are you kidding? You want my bro to chafe? Put him in a cotton baby carrier, thick and quilted for comfort. But go with a pastel so he doesn’t overheat. And don’t forget the treats. All flavors, remember?
A quilted, pastel baby carrier? You call yourself a man?
Cotton. Cool comfort. No chafing. Duh. Where did Freeda find you again? The dumb dweebman store?
Ignore Harmony, Scarred. Once Shawna comes outside, slide off your stallion, take her delicate hand in yours, stare deeply into her eyes and—
Feed all the treats to Shnookums.
—tell her the thousand reasons why she sets your soul on fuego. Pull her close and slow dance under the moon until your hearts beat as one.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. You want my bro to listen to fuego BS and then get smushed while they dance? It’s bad enough Shawna abandoned him.
They cannot be a happy trio, Harmony, until the two lovers are whole.
Grrrrr. The two lovers are holes alright. Wanna know what kind?
Settle down, gordito. After Scarred and Shawna mend their love, they will give the treats to the weasel together, taking turns so he—
Who you calling gordito, fat head? Grrrrrr. (gasp) Wait, that must mean you made Freeda cut back on my bacon.
Freeda is giving you vegetables because you are a furry salchicha.
Who said anything about vegetables? Grrrrrr. I knew it! The broccoli was also your fault. What’s next? Canceling my belly rubs?
The broccoli was Freeda’s idea, muchacho.
Riiiiigggghhhht. Freeda gives love. Dweebman gives broccoli.
That’s not true. Hey, where are you going with my shoes?
Salchicha, my sexy ass…
Why are you hunching—you’d better not be—
Oh, it’s happenin’. I’m giving you back your dumb broccoli.