Dear Ferret Folks-

I'm wondering if perhaps Ping and Puma are *hating* winter as much as
I am. It's been gray, gray, gray. Leafless branches clatter in the wind.
To add insult to injury we've had forty degree rain (and are expecting
more!), so much of the ground is covered with slush. Just going to
the supermarket is an adventure in pushing a shopping cart across the
asphalt through several inches of slush and salted road sand. And my
driveway? Glare ice. With slush at the edges. I'm tired of this. It
saps my energy. The dog just lays next to the woodstove in her soft
dog bed, her black parts almost too hot to touch. My husband and I are
concerned that she will actually singe her fur one of these days. We
figure we'll smell burning fur, and that will be our first clue that
the dog is actually going up in flames. We make rude jokes about
putting the flames out with slush.

Such is February in New England.

For their parts, Ping and Puma seem most reluctant to leave their
hammies. I'm figuring it's toasty inside the soft sleeping bag that
they share, a nice green and yellow John Deere fleece-lined bag that
their Auntie Kim Fox made. I peer into the cage and I see two gray
heads peeking out of the bag, which lies on a green and yellow John
Deere fleece hammie that came from Ferretudes. When I open up the cage
door for out time the little heads swivel, and four dark eyes regard
me, but it's not like any weasels *hurry* to leave the warmth and
comfort of that shared bag. They yawn, showing me the full set of
weasel dental hardware. Pointy canines and sharp molars, very good for
chewing rubber pencil erasers, although that is certainly not what
nature intended with that design. Those choppers are for WABBIT huntin'
season.

I actually had to squeak their squeakies to get them to leave the cag
tonight! I gave them the rare, rare treat of a raisin apiece (this
happens half a dozen times a year) and what did Ping do? Ran back
*into* the cage to eat it. Puma disappeared beneath a sofa and made
soft, wet chewing noises. That at least seemed like normal weasel
behavior. Five minutes later? They were back in that soft green and
yellow quilted bag that lies on their topmost hammie, snuggling,
looking sleepy.

What gives? African Sleeping Sickness? Is someone slipping Valium into
their cage water bottle? They are moving sooo slowly. Recently there
have been times I propped the cage door open for *hours* and no weasels
ventured forth. I don't think they are sick. Poops look good. Although
any physician looking me over this time of year to gauge the severity
of my winter lassitude might well do the same thing. "Is Alexandra
eating? Do her poops look good? That'll be a fifteen dollar co-pay."

I'm thinking that if we are treated to a few bright, sunny days when
the light shines along the length of each and every pine needle, and
the air has that beautiful smell of fresh snow and woodsmoke that makes
winter a beautiful thing and not a dull ache, I might get my Pigmy
Wolverines back. Until then, I'm just going to have two endlessly
sleeping, funny looking gray kitties who smell like Fritos and don't
purr.

I want my Wolverines back. I want spring.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5874]