The Fifteenth Annual National Ferret Racing Championships
Three hundred or so squeaky high-pitched voices
combine into one frenzied chorus
as sausage-shaped titans are lifted from plastic crates,
each wearing jackets embroidered with the logo of
Lady Prudence Bexley-Cholmondeley's Supreme Rodent Bedding & Bedding Accessories Ltd.,
the premier bedding choice for any discerning mustelid athlete.
The first ferret tries to leap from his handler's arms,
rotates slowly like an undercooked sausage rolling off a plate,
before being stuffed into the starting sock.
The crowd roars.
I had assumed there would be chairs.
I'm pressed against a metal barrier,
next to a tall man in a knitted jumper patterned with cartoon ferrets
and the phrase Ferret 'Em Up! in aggressive lettering.
He says his ferret, Lord Whiskerton III,
is "a sprinter, not a distance guy,"
which seems an odd concern for a track
that is, to be fair, a straight length of drainpipe.
Someone tries to start a chant:
"Down the tube! Down the tube!"
It morphs into:
"Stuff 'em in! Stuff 'em in!
Stuff 'em in and let 'em win!
Margaret's ferret's got a lovely chin!"
The MC extols Lady Prudence's bedding range
and reminds us ferrets are not to be fed jam sandwiches.
He lists each ferret's name, age, and "preferred scent enrichment":
"lemon zest," "old football socks," and one simply "mystery."
Handlers crouch,
ferrets poised at the drainpipe entrance.
Three blasts on a whistle tied to novelty ferret beads—
they're off.
Or, more accurately, three are off.
One stays motionless.
Lord Whiskerton III reverses
and tries to exit via his handler's sleeve.
The tall man mutters, "He's conserving energy."
The ground rumbles—not from the ferrets—
but from the stomping crowd.
Ferrets emerge, each scooped up like footballers celebrating goals,
long, wiggly, and not exactly thrilled.
The winner's handler kisses her ferret's nose;
runner-up gets a consolatory grape.
Between heats, the MC invites us to browse merchandise—
ferret calendars, travel-sized bedding sachets,
and inexplicably, a mug with a ferret posing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Semi-finals.
Wedged between jumper man and a woman in a foam ferret hat,
which wobbles every time she shouts,
"Go on, Gary! Leg it, you magnificent weasel!"
Gary, a two-time champ,
is also known for biting a timekeeper's shoelace mid-race.
A hush falls.
Ferrets vanish into tubes with surprising speed,
emerging in a tangled mess.
Winner decided by "whisker margin."
I still don't understand the scoring,
but clap when jumper man's ferret loses—
he likes underdog stories.
Final.
Gary vs. Mrs. Sprinkles.
Tension thick enough to chew.
Whistle blows.
Gary charges.
Mrs. Sprinkles pauses to sneeze, then proceeds...existentially.
Gary wins by a full tube-length.
The foam hat lady collapses in joy.
Someone sprays sparkling elderflower cordial.
Lady Prudence presents the trophy:
a golden ferret on a bedding plinth.
The crowd drifts into the drizzle of the car park.
Jumper man asks what I thought.
"Exhilarating," I say, "though why was one ferret disqualified?"
"Oh," he says,
"Pooped in the pipe."
Automatic DQ.
