Dear Ferret Folks-
 
Men.  Some of you just need to be told and told.
 
Take for example my heart-of-gold brother in law, Brad.  He likes to take
Switch and Lily out of their room and play with them.  They have no real
objection, they like to play.  (Any excuse to be in the main part of the
house.  They'd be happy to help us prepare our taxes if it meant that
they could be out of their room working the calculator.  No problem.  No
job too small.)
 
But he doesn't play always play *nice*.  For example, he thought it would
be fun to take them out and 'juggle' them.  Juggling seems to involve
throwing them helplessly up and down into the air about a foot with every
toss, and letting them fall back into his large hands.  They don't *want*
to be juggled.  Imagine that!  They don't want to be tossed by the giant
hairless primate, helpless to the possibility of falling, say, twenty
times their own height to the floor if said primate misses.  Small
wonder.  I can see where they are coming from.  Brad can't.  He just
can't.  I tell him and tell him and tell him.  It does no good.
 
So Brad is tossing them.  He finally decides to listen to me enough that
he moves to sit on the velvety green living room sofa to toss them some
more.
 
I say "They are going to bite you."  Brad chuckles like Jughead and keeps
tossing them.  In fact, Brad greatly resembles Jughead, of Archie fame.
He is fully six foot four, and maybe a foot across.  Thick bottle lens
glasses.  He weighs approximately 160 pounds wet, and has an unruly mop
of dark hair.  No stupid hat.
 
The inevitable happens.  He drops Lily onto the sofa.  She falls ten
times her own height and lands with a muffled thump on all fours.
 
Now, the look on her face would be enough to give most people pause.
All one and a half of her pounds are nicely balanced on four feet, in a
squared off martial-arts stance.  Her black little eyes glitter.  Her
whiskers are lifted in a way that clearly signals kick-ass trouble to the
more observant.  More observant than Brad, who continues to juggle Switch
one handed, while trying to capture Lily with the other.
 
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
 
Lily proceeds to kick his skinny white ass.
 
Open mouthed, she shakes her head back and forth, fangs ready for
business, and says 'Heeeeeeeeeeee." Very, very quietly while backing
up.  Her backing up is kind of like a pitcher's winding up.  I know full
well that she is about to give him an ass kicking.  I say one more time,
just for the official transcript, "She is going to bite you."
 
She bites him.  He screams like a girl.  A little one in a pink Barbie
party dress and matching tiara.  "EEEeeeeeeeee!"
 
She lunges at him again.  And again.  He is helpless.  He is using one
hand to try to ward her off, (stupid, it's just a big tasty target from
her perspective) the other is full of Switch who is clutched in it and
hanging like a rag going "*hit *hit *hit *hit *hit!"
 
Again from the six foot four man "EEEEEeeeee!" and "She biiiiiit meeee!"
 
No, really? She bit you? Can't imagine why. (Git him again!)
 
"EEEEEEeeeeeeeee!"
"Omigod!"
"Get her off!"
"Get her off!"
 
Do I move?  No.  Not an inch.
 
"EEEEeeeeeeeee!"
"Heeeeeeeellllllpp!"
 
Lunge.  Chomp.  Nip.  Lunge.
 
"EEeeeeeeeeeee!"
 
I finally lend a hand, metaphorically, if not physically.  I give him
a nuggett of advice.  It's not my fault if he does not manage it
effectively.  "If you put Switch down, you'll have two hands free."
Silly me, I neglected to tell him to use that hand to get himself off of
the sofa.  Why?  I'm having too much fun.  Not my fault if he doesn't
think of it himself.  Besides, the ladies need the exercise.
 
He promptly drops Switch onto the sofa, who lands with a squared off
martial arts stance, winds up, and lunges at him from the other side,
fangs flashing.
 
"EEEEeeeeee, ahhhhhh, Eeeeee!"
"Omigodomigodomigod"
"Helllp meeeeee!"
 
"Brad, get off of the sofa."
 
Some men. They just have to be told and told.
 
"Brad, get off of the sofa and they can't get you."
 
Lick-lick,CHOMP!
 
"EEEEEEeeeeeeeee!"
 
He finally throws himself bodily off of the sofa and onto his knees on
the floor.
 
He crawls away rapidly, while the ladies squat down on their haunches,
measuring the distance to make the necessary jump.  I say it once more,
just for fun this time "Brad, they're going to bite you." He crawls
faster, skinning both of the bony knees protruding from the legs of his
shorts.
 
"Hellllp me!!"
 
I have mercy on him.  I walk over and pick the ladies up from off of the
sofa.  I smooth their fur down, and rub them nicely.  They respond by
going what I call "otters up".  They lie on their backs, feet up, ears
perky, front paws hanging, looking around to see what can be seen.  Which
is Brad, now completely disheveled and vanquished by three and a half
pounds of weasel on the living room floor, breathing heavily, glasses
hanging askew.
 
I *told* him not to.
 
Alexandra in MA
[Posted in FML issue 4499]