Dear Ferret Folks-

Well, Ping is He has always had a thing for chicken. Just last week I
had a small roast chicken that I had taken from the fridge and placed
up on my kitchen island for slicing. I turned my back when the phone
rang and forgot all about it. I flopped down in a comfy chair and had
a nice talk with my caller, until I noticed movement out of the corner
of my eye. It was Ping, and he was up on the island. More to the point,
he was up there with the chicken. He sank his pointy fangs into the
breast, and was in the process of dragging the entire bird off of the
island when I yelled for my husband.

"Daaann! Ping has the chicken!"

My husband bounded across the room in a flash and wrestled the chicken,
plate and all, from one *extremely* resentful weasel. Ping power-sulked
for a good three minutes, speed-bumping on top of the island as if he
had no front legs. Then I had to explain the whole thing to my Mother
on the other end of the phone. She suggested that my life was out of
control. I said that no, my life was fine. It was my weasel who was
out of control.

That was last week, and nothing has changed. In fact, things have
gotten markedly worse.

As I posted a few days ago, Ping managed to sneak out of the house in
the night and he discovered our chicken coop, complete with our four
teen-aged Barred Rock chickens. The chickens shrieked their primal
song, "There is a weasel in the hen house!" I ran into the night and
removed Ping from the coop, no harm done. Well, maybe the chickens
need Prozac in their feed-corn now, but they survived the experience
without a scratch.

Apparently the experience had a profound impact upon Ping is He. As
in, he found his purpose in life. Who knew. Ping is He was put on this
earth to kill chickens. Yes, to kill chickens. This thought fills his
every waking hour. It's a challenge, all right. First he has to get
out of the house. This is best accomplished by sneaking out of the
cat flap, and that's not easy. He can only jump up onto the piece of
furniture that lets him get to the cat flap, say, one out of every
seventy five jumps that he attempts. Well, Ping is a *ferret.* One out
of every seventy five jumps? He takes a deep breath, narrows his eyes,
and jumps seventy *six* times without a break. And then he is out the
cat flap, and free in my yard.

I know because not one hour ago I looked out of my back door and Ping
streaking after a teen-aged hen, (we had NO idea that he had made that
seventy-sixth jump!) who was running for her life. She darn near lost
it, because Ping got her by the throat. I blasted out the back door
and chased the two of them. Ping pinned her down and I had to stick
my finger into his mouth to keep him from crushing her throat. He
absolutely, positively would not let go. I absolutely, positively would
not take my finger out of his mouth. Stalemate. It didn't end until my
husband helped me pry Ping's jaws open so that the little hen could
run away, which she did with no prompting from us. She is just fine.
Needing a double ration of Prozac for Poultry, but otherwise fine.

Needless to say, we are moving things around to deny Ping access to the
cat flap. Seventy five jumps? A million jumps won't do it anymore. That
little stinker! And Ping is the nice, mellow ferret that my friends
and family aren't afraid of, unlike Puma who is universally feared.
He is at this moment sulking in his cage. Inside his cage, he cannot
accomplish his purpose, the reason why he was put upon this earth.
But I think I know what went through his mind the other day when he
discovered the coop...and the wonder that is the LIVE chicken...(Here
you must imagine a masked weasel singing, one who looks a lot like a
two inch wide raccoon)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGPTlNh0cnQ

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5974]