I live with two ferrets in suits of poodle.
Ever watch a ferret for fifteen seconds?
It's up and over and all around, nosing here, darting there. In constant motion, in search of God knows what, but certainly not whatever's easily found.
All night long, the poodles want to get under the blankets. When they've accomplished that, they want to get out from under the blankets. Max has lost every sense he ever owned except a slight bit of scenting ability, which does not help him find the top of the blankets. He roots around, whanging his head upward every other step to knock the blanket out of his way, the whole circuit of the bed. While I lie not breathing, pretending that I can sleep through this. Finally, I open the blankets wide. The fresh cold air rushing underneath next to my warm body allows him to get out.
When I arise in the morning I have One Thing That I Must Do, and that is to medicate the poodles. I tried for a long time to pry their tiny jaws open as I was bent down to their height. It's physically easier to hide the quartered or eighthed pills in bits of butter, or liverwurst, or (and this is the result of lengthy and expensive research) Turkey and Turkey Gravy Gerber Stage 2 baby food.
No matter what I use as disguise, they find the substance that they must ingest for continued health, eat the expensive and carefully applied disguise food, and spit out the infinitesimal bit of medication.
Afterward they go to the door, stare out and bark at nothing. They don't want to go out; they want me to get up and attend them. They don't need anything; they just want to know that they can make me come to them.
They don't want the food I've put before them. Each wants his brother's food. Same food, same dishes . . . his is different and better.
I've done it to them. I have done it to myself. I know this.
And this is why I must never get another puppy. I must only ever get grown up dogs Who Know How To Act.
I am too easily trained.