Greetings my lovelies,

There is no such thing as a quiet morning in this house. There are quieter mornings, but that’s different.

With four ferrets, three dogs, a cat, Ronnie, and me under one roof, somebody always wants something. Food. Water. Attention. Outside. Inside. Treats. Snuggles. A litter box cleaned. Poop cleaned out of the backyard. Toys. Tunnels. Maybe even a swim in the tub—oops, only one who loves that is our ferret fish, Barra.

Or, in Barra’s case, a piece of raw chicken she can hide somewhere we’ll discover three days later and wonder what the hell died.

Welcome to the Wright Zoo.

The ferret girls alone are an entire morning.

There’s Barra, one of our lighter girls and definitely the heavier one, which might have something to do with the fact that she apparently believes raw chicken should be treated as a long-term investment.

She hides it. Not in normal places, because that would be far too easy. She’ll carry a piece of raw chicken off and stash it somewhere secure, preferably somewhere requiring furniture removal, a flashlight, and possibly a search warrant. I’m convinced we’re eventually going to move something and discover that Barra has been operating an underground chicken bunker for months.

GROSS.

She’s also our ferret fish. Barra loves swimming in the tub. The same ferret who spends her time stashing raw poultry around my house will happily get in the water and swim around like this is a perfectly normal activity for a ferret.

Barra is also a spaz and a biter. This little shit will bite you anywhere she can get her teeth into you. There is apparently no part of the human body Barra has deemed off-limits. She’s equal opportunity that way.

Then there’s Summer, who also bites but has a much more refined palate.

Summer prefers upper arms.

More specifically, the fat part.

Thank you, Summer.

Nothing keeps a woman humble quite like having a ferret locate the squishiest part of her upper arm and decide, Yes. This. I shall bite this.

Other than that charming little habit, Summer is my jumper and my snuggler. She loves our bed. She’ll bounce around on it, jump all over the place, and then settle down for affection like she wasn’t just using us as playground equipment.

Summer also makes facial gestures when you talk to her. I swear she does. Her little face changes, her ears move, and she looks at you like she’s listening to every word and has some very strong opinions about what you’re saying.

For all I know, she probably does.

Then there’s my Jazzy.

We’ve had Jasmine since 2021, so there’s history with my girl. She’s one of the lighter girls, and yes, she has adrenal disease now. She’s getting older, but she’s holding in there. She’s still playful, still curious, still Jazzy.

She loves snuggling under blankets, but one of her favorite places is my shorts drawer. Apparently I bought a dresser so my ferrets could have condos and I just happen to keep clothing in their bedrooms.

Then there’s Mimzie, my sweetest and littlest girl.

She’s the thin, dark one, the rescue we got with Alfie. Mimzie has always been quieter. She’s playful, but there’s something softer about her. She doesn’t demand center stage.

Lately, though, she wants me more.

Since losing the boys, I’ve noticed her coming to me for love and attention more than ever. I notice her looking for me. I notice when she wants to be near me. I notice those little invitations she gives me to love on her, and maybe I’m noticing because I’m paying closer attention now.

One of the boys needed so much of my attention that I don’t think I realized how easily Mimzie could get lost in everything going on around here. That hurts a little to admit. I loved her—of course I loved her—but sometimes love and attention aren’t exactly the same thing.

Now she’s asking for mine, and I’m giving it to her.

She’s still quiet, still playful, still my little Mimzie. And like Jazzy, she loves my shorts drawer, so apparently that’s prime ferret real estate. At this point I’ve surrendered ownership.

Between Barra biting anything made of flesh, Summer specifically targeting my arm fat, Jazzy burrowing into blankets, and Mimzie moving into my dresser, I really don’t know who’s in charge around here anymore.

Actually, that’s bullshit.

It’s obviously the ferrets.

And that’s only one department of the Wright Zoo. We haven’t even gotten to the dogs.

Chloe has been with us since 2014, and you would never believe her age by watching her. When I got her, she fit in the palm of my hand. Now she weighs 75 pounds, which makes her slightly less convenient to carry around.

Hardly a hand or lap dog, unless she forgets that part and decides she belongs in my lap anyway.

She’s a Husky/Red Heeler, and when she gets going, she still does that Husky mouth-whirl talking thing. If you’ve ever lived with a Husky or Husky mix, you know exactly what I mean. They don’t simply make noises. They have entire conversations, and apparently we’re expected to understand them.

Chloe still plays like she’s years younger, and the second Tucson gives us cooler weather, she’s ready to go. I imagine her walking outside thinking, Finally. Mother has fixed Arizona.

Sorry, Chloe. I don’t have that kind of power.

Yet.

She’s also the big sister of this family, and everybody knows it. Chloe has seniority, she knows she has seniority, and she’s also the resident tattletale.

If somebody is doing something they shouldn’t be doing, Chloe knows about it. More importantly, Chloe makes damn sure we know about it. There are no secrets in this house when Big Sister is on duty.

Then there’s Kona.

My sweet baby girl.

She supposedly came into this house as Ronnie’s dog, but apparently Kona never signed that contract. Somewhere along the way, she chose me, and that was pretty much the end of the discussion.

Now she’s my big-headed shadow. She follows me everywhere. She looks intimidating enough that someone might think twice about coming through the door, but she’s really a giant baby who would crawl inside my skin if personal-space laws allowed it.

She just wants to be wherever I am.

And honestly, I want her there.

Then there’s Winston.

Oh, Winston.

This dog barks at everything. A noise, a shadow, a bird, a suspicious breeze, possibly tectonic activity. I’m still convinced Winston can hear slugs fart.

Yes, we’ve had our struggles with him peeing in the house. We had our incident last week, and he’s actually been doing better since then. He’s trying, and that’s what matters.

Because for all the barking and all the very Winston things Winston does, he is such a loving little guy. He sleeps on my side of the bed, and lately I’ve been waking up with him in my arms.

I don’t put him there.

Somewhere during the night, Winston makes his way over to me, curls himself into my arms, and that’s how I wake up.

How the hell am I supposed to resist that?

And finally, there is Peppermint.

Queen of the office?

Fuck that.

Queen of the house.

Peppermint has made it perfectly clear that the rest of us merely live here. Her litter box should be clean, her wet food should be served, and her Temptations should be presented according to Her Majesty’s expectations.

She has a perfectly good cat tree in front of the window, but why would she stay there when she can be directly involved in my work?

Peppermint gets on my desk while I’m working because obviously I need assistance. Sometimes she lies on the keyboard. Sometimes she moves my mouse. Sometimes I look at what I’m writing and realize Peppermint has made her own editorial contributions, so I have to go back and fix whatever the hell she just did.

She’s helping.

At least that’s what I’m told.

By the time everybody has been fed, loved, let outside, cleaned up after, snuggled, rescued from somewhere, removed from somewhere else, or asked What the hell do you have?, I’ve already lived my entire morning before my actual workday begins.

There’s fur everywhere. Ferret toys migrate into places they don’t belong. Somebody is barking. Somebody is tattling. Somebody is following me. Somebody is helping me work without being asked. Somebody may have raw chicken hidden somewhere I don’t know about yet, and apparently my shorts drawer is communal housing.

It’s loud. It’s messy. Sometimes it’s completely ridiculous.

But it’s home.

When I look around this house, I don’t see a bunch of pets we take care of. I see Barra, Summer, Jazzy, Mimzie, Chloe, Kona, Winston, and Peppermint. I see Ronnie and me right there in the middle of all of them.

I see my family.

They each have their quirks and their own personalities. They each have their own ways of asking for love and their own ways of giving it back. Some cuddle. Some follow me everywhere. Some climb into my arms while I’m sleeping. Some help me work. Some apparently express their affection by biting the fattest part of my upper arm.

I’m still questioning that particular love language, Summer.

Our house probably wouldn’t qualify as peaceful by most people’s standards. There’s too much barking, dooking, playing, tattling, keyboard walking, furniture moving, and the occasional hunt for contraband chicken.

But I wouldn’t trade it for quiet.

This is our home.

This is my family, and I love them all.