POP Goes The Weasel

I had lost him.

Weasel, my ferret. I know, the name is confusing, but I had been eight when I got him as a birthday gift from my zookeeping Uncle Gary. I walk further down the park, autumn leaves soggy under my boots. I open the small bag of cooked chicken pieces, aromatizing the air around me, all in the hopes of leading Weasel to me. A sudden gust of wind picks up. Leaves stir and my fingers freeze. I stick the bag of food into my jacket pocket, my hands following. As I clench my fingers, warming them, something brushes against one of them. I pull out my right hand, along with it a plastic wrapper from a gum pack. Impulsively, I check the inner pockets and come across an empty plastic pack for facial tissues. Dropping both plastic items amongst the leaves, I continue, my heart racing as worst-case scenarios run through my mind.

"Weasel?" I call out, my breaths quickening. Suddenly, something cuts through the heavy sound of my heart beating in my ears. It's a loud screech, followed by rapid chattering. It's Weasel.

My voice comes out in a frenzy, as I shout for my ferret. Every time Weasel screeches - and he only screeches like that when he's absolutely terrified, - my throat closes up. The cold bites my face. I force myself to stop, and take a breath before pulling out the bag of food, ignoring the freezing tips of my fingers. The chattering goes off again and I extend my arm, the meat cooling.

"Again, Weasel. Lead me to you." I trail off, a drive of panic running through me again at the following silence. A beat passes. The screech comes again and it is much closer. I turn to my right and look around the wet trunk of a tree.

There he is. I gasp and tuck the bag into my pocket, rushing to get to my ferret. Weasel's head perks up at the sight of me and I scoop him up. His short white fur is coated in patches of now-dried mud, but the sight of his tiny visage lights me up from within. The one thing stopping me from calming down is the six-pack ring he's caught in. I slowly extricate him from the plastic prison he'd been caught on. I crunch it within my fist and begin walking home, feeding my squealing ferret.

My soul, now unburdened, takes its turn enjoying the leafy scene. During my search for brown leaves to stomp on, I hear a crunch from under my boot. I look down with a smile, only to find out that it's my own trash that I had dropped on my way. A flash of Weasel being caught on the tossed plastic goes through my mind and I bend down, picking it up. I look at Weasel as he sniffs the bag of meat in my hand. "We wouldn't want anything else getting scared like you did, now do we?"