These are the stinkweasels. They are officially ferrets, and have been called many things. My affectionate name for them is stinkweasels. If you ask my granddaughters, they are hamsters. (Due to one time apartment living where hamsters were landlord permissible, stinkweasels, not so much.)
But mostly because for the past year, they have boarded here. Migrant ferrets. My daughter and grandgirls came for an extended stay last spring. With these little faces in tow. When the girls left, there was no room in the truck for this pair. (Or on the subsequent trips) And mostly, because I have to clean their abode when the scent overwhelms the mudroom (often) and every dang time I do, one of these rascals manages to pull a Houdini and lead me on a merry chase.
While they love to be held and cuddled, when the feet hit the floor, it’s game on. I spent 40 minutes today chasing that little masked bandit on the left there. Up, down around, over and under all the assorted flotsam and jetsam and feed bags in my mud room. I’m too old for this crap. The other one was watching intently, unable to find whatever half inch crevice her partner in crime Shawshanked his way through.
Ever heard a ferret laugh? Stinkweasels.