While I was strolling through a food aisle at our local Target, I noticed something strikingly familiar. Apparently a toasted, sesame coated peanut sounded too good to leave to the chinchillas. It’s hard to imagine truly enjoying one of these ‘treats’ after seeing them half eaten and poopish in the bottom of my own chinchilla’s cage over the years. Which begged the question, if I can eat chinchilla food (hey, it’s not only nutritious but actually health food), can my chinchilla eat people food?

Then I remembered that humans are basically pariahs, so no, probably not. But perhaps a high-energy diet is exactly what my chinchillas need to turn the herd into a tiny chilla ninja army. Just imagine it, so cute, but so agile and deadly. The first step is to get those little chilla hands to hold a diminutive tanto. Then teach them to listen for the victim’s heart beat, and quickly dash across the room, slicing the carotid artery just in time to prevent the blood from reaching the brain, but soon enough so that the nasty blood doesn’t stain that wonderfully soft and beautiful coat. Oh, and don’t forget how easy it is for a chinchilla to hide. Have you ever tried to find an escaped chinchilla? How easy would it be for the chinchilla to lie in wait behind your nightstand, only to perch upon your sleeping lip and loose its deadly poison pellets in your mouth, all the while munching happily on a piece of organic alfalfa. The terror is unbelievable, I know, but it has to be done. I promise to use my chinchilla ninja army only for good. That’s the best I can give you. The promise of an attorney is shifty at best, but now it’s in writing, so no worries.

The training is particularly grueling, perhaps most so on the teacher. The students’ glassy eyes flit around the room randomly. Such little focus in these small students. They barely notice me to poop. In fact, they seem not to notice me at all. This is going to be rough.

I begin by introducing each student to his or her chosen weapon. Understanding that they are still weak and uninitiated to the means of combat, I use small, plastic swords, borrowed from a child’s playset.

The first student runs away. Ah, the heart of the tiger is not in this one yet, but he will learn. The second sniffs and poops. Typical. Now, the third is curious. Beebee leans her face toward her chosen weapon—a kama I believe—and proceeds to eat her chosen weapon. Bad chilla.

The next three do scarcely better, but now I test the seventh chinchilla, the leader (I can tell), Haze. He has guts. He just might have the killing way.

I pick him up, struggling to keep him still, and set him atop the cage. He looks defiant, but willing. His contradictory gaze keeps me from speaking, so I hold out his chosen weapon—a miniscule, wooden senbon needle (a toothpick)—and let his oddly shaped hand-foot pluck his destiny from my fingertips. He not only takes it, he wields it, and strikes a warrior pose before my eyes. His excellence has inspired the others, and they too pick up their chosen weapons and climb to his side.

I stand with my arms crossed, proud, but trying not to smile, unless they all should forget they are only just maggots on the trek of the ninjafly. I am getting tired, and it is time for all of them to get back in their cages.

Ouch! That hurt. Maybe this was a bad idea... tune in next time for phase two: disarming an agitated band of chinchillas. Later.