I got an interesting letter from my brother the other day. It started, “Everybody loves pet stories, and since very few sane people own ferrets ...”

His good-hearted intention was to motivate me to write about Barnaby, my allegedly aforementioned heretofore alluded to pet of the ferret persuasion. There was also – we’re talking about a brother here – the implication that Big Sis might be hovering on the wrong side of the “very few sane people” dividing line.

Nevertheless, his wish was my command. And so I begin today by asking the question: Is it sane to own a ferret? And if it is not, are there any circumstances in which it might be? Let’s start with the basics.

What are ferrets? The scientific name of the domestic ferret (my kind) is Mustela furo. It is a descendant of the European polecat. It is also member of the weasel family; however, I choose to ignore that, because it is more illustrious to have a polecat as an ancestor than a weasel.

Anyway, who would want to kiss a weasel?

Ferrets, like designer fabrics, come in a variety of colors and patterns. Most have caramel colored fur with dark masks around their eyes like Zorro. Angora ferrets, sturdy little fellows, have long hair and resemble the lint that one takes out of the dryer after washing a favorite sweater.

Barnaby, photographed here, is white in the winter with a smattering of black the rest of the year. He is chubby and cuddly from November to April, and thin and cuddly from May to October. His little pink nose cracks me up. All I have to do is look at it and I burst out laughing.

What do ferrets do? Well ... Well ... Maybe it would be easier to tell you what they don’t do. They don’t herd sheep; they don’t bring you your newspaper in the morning; they don’t save little Timmy when he falls into a well; and they don’t bark when a psychopath is about to break through your bedroom window. In fact, they don’t make any noises at all unless you step on them, and then they give a heart-rending yelp.

Despite their inability to perform chores around the house, ferret exhibitions are held throughout the country. This rather reinforces my brother’s opinion about ferret-owner sanity. At these events, ferrets are judged for their abilities to escape from paper bags or to impersonate Elvis. There are also competitions for best yawner, best key stealer, best kisser, and best knocker-of-things-off-tables, all of which the entrants do with great joy and equanimity. Indicative of the generally low performance standards held by ferret owners is this quote from the Ferret Buckeye Bash, “any competitor who bites a judge will be immediately disqualified,” which seems to presuppose that, of course, a ferret will want to bite a judge.

If you give a ferret a Fed Ex mailing envelope, he will ecstatically scratch at the inside bubble wrap and love you forever. Ferrets, too, are remarkably adept at shredding paper towels, hiding in drawers, knocking over plants, sneaking into refrigerators, and licking showers. Like humans who declare that hot dogs taste best when served at a ball park, ferrets believe that water has only been property seasoned after their owners have sloshed around in it at the bottom of a shower stall. And after said shower, most ferret owners would agree that it is unnecessary to dry their feet, as their ferret will do an excellent job of it for them.