Stoned on Ferrets

I got high on ferrets this morning. It was purely accidental; I am not an addict.
My doctor sent me to a phlebotomist to have some blood drawn (a nice pen and ink rendering), and on the way home, I stopped by the pet–supply store to pick up some dog and cat food. After I loaded the shopping cart with ridiculously expensive food, I made my way to the checkout counter, but was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a small horde of young ferrets romping around in a large Plexiglas enclosure.
Watching ferrets at play is mesmerizing, kinetic cuteness in wild abandon. I think ferret activity is synonymous with the word fun. Perhaps it is because a ferret’s lifespan is only about five to eight years that they try to cram as much joy and activity into every minute they have.
The enclosure in which they were housed was opened on top, and I couldn’t resist sticking my arm in and interacting with the six critters inside. They showed no fear and immediately flung themselves on my arm, clinging to it like rats on a rope. I began rubbing small, furry tummies, eliciting small squeaks of delight from the beady-eyed, pink-nosed land otters. To my astonishment, I discovered ferrets are natural phlebotomists. Diminutive, needlelike claws dug into my forearm, and tiny beads of blood popped through my skin, but I felt no pain. I believe those young balls of happiness were injecting some sort of ferret heroin into my bloodstream because the more I bled, the giddier I became. What a rush. Forty minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, drawing me out of my ferret-induced bliss.
“You want to buy a ferret?” said a skinny young man with a bad hairdo.
“Uh…” I stammered, “How much are they?”
“One hundred and twenty nine dollars,” he said.
As I thought about making the expenditure, another thought crowed in my brain. “My wife will kill me if a buy a ferret.” I told the clerk I’d have to think about it, and then asked if it would be Ok if I came back tomorrow for another fix.