As we rejoin our story....It is Sunday morning, the morning of the big
Flea Market, and the very first hoomins are starting to appear in the
dewy mown grass of the fairway. Little colorful shade structures and
tents have popped up here and there, and hoomins have been carefully
arranging their wares atop folding card tables in the lots they have
rented for the day. Racks of clothing appear, and cardboard boxes of
vinyl record albums. Rainbow jumbles of plastic toddler toys are placed
upon blankets spread in the grass, and are quickly joined by tottering
stacks of worn paperback books. Romances. Westerns. Microwave Meal
Magic. Learn Spanish! Invest in Alpaca. The Search for the Aliens Among
Us. Wooden crates of curious bits of brass hardware and incomplete
socket wrench sets are unloaded from the back of heavily laden pick-up
trucks. Packs of children run between the tables, yelling, and are
angrily cautioned to slow down, to no great effect. The sky is blue,
the sun is golden, and rising into a sky fringed with pine and hemlock
all around.

And at lot 72, a small crowd has gathered. Two couples of elderly
hoomins in colorful nylon track suits and sneakers stood before the
paw-lettered sign describing the rare black Russian Minks. It was
apparent to Ping and Puma (who conferred in the barest of whispers)
that the hoomins were mated pairs and old, with white head fur.

"My mother had a black Mink stole after the war, but I think it was
from Canada." said one of the elderly ladies, the one with a white
baseball cap and sunglasses. At this Puma's eyes narrowed dangerously,
and Ping's grew wide in alarm. The Pigmy Porcupine rattled its tiny
spines in a rhythmic fashion then that almost sounded like a chuckle,
and one of the hoomin men remarked upon the accidental resemblance.

"Why, it sounds like the little thing's giggling in a kind of a nasty
way!" said the husband of the lady with the sunglasses. A fierce glare
from one of the Otters wallowing in the kiddie wading pool stopped any
more 'chuckling,' accidental or otherwise coming from the Porcupine's
direction.

The other couple was quite taken with Sterling, who was disappointed
that they didn't think it was a good idea to reach down and pet him,
although he was certainly a "pretty thing," according to them. They'd
never seen an Ocelot before, and said his spots were very handsome. At
that he began a deep throated purring that ended when the second hoomin
lady remarked that his pelt would be absolutely *beautiful* draped over
the front bench seat of her Lincoln Town Car. His purr stopped like a
rubber band snapping and his jaw dropped. What kind of hoomins *were*
these? Long after the four had walked away, he stared at the green and
white dollar bill that they had left in the honor box. How could they
want to pet him and pelt him, all at the same time? He was glad that
they hadn't petted him after all. He didn't want to know the smell of
their hands in his fur.

Soon, a family came to lot 72. Parents, and two children, the youngest
slung around his mother's hip. He wiggled insistently until his mother
put him down, and he wandered over to the Otters wading pool while the
rest of his family circled around the Noble Allis Chompers, and reached
hands down to pet her. The Otters floated happily on their backs in the
blue plastic kiddie wading pool. They looked up at the little boy with
their heavy-lidded eyes and each silently hoped that the child would
not toss any coins at them. That happened all the time at the Ecotarium
in Worcester, and both brothers could attest to the fact that flung
pennies were *painful!*

But no. The little boy, whose name was Albert and had just turned four
lifted one foot shod in a "Go, Diego Go!" sneaker and stepped carefully
over the edge of the pool, and into it. Then he stepped his other foot
into the pool, as well. This action *appalled* the Otters, who
scrambled to exit the pool as quickly as they could, splashing and
throwing quite a bit of water about as they did so. Now that he had
the pool all to himself, Albert happily sat down in the middle of it,
and began to pour water out of his cupped hands.

The dripping First Otter said to the Second "This is outrageous! Have
they no care for their kits?"

"Apparently not," huffed the Second. "They have not *yet* noticed his
location!"

"Were it not for us to play lifeguard, the kit could be seriously in-"

And the First Otter was interrupted by a frightened wail from the
mother, who had finally noticed that her son was playing hoomin
tea-bag!

"AAAlbert! Baby! Mama will save you!"

And indeed, Mama did run over to her son, still happily sitting in
the middle of the pool and pouring water from his cupped hands. She
snatched him from the pool, causing him to wail, and Puma noted to
herself grimly that they were going to have to add more water. While
the Mother ran her hands over her child, assuring herself that he was
well, her mate began to bellow loudly that he was going to sue everyone
associated with the Petting Zoo, he knew "people!" And while he did
that his daughter, older than Albert at eight and having read and
understood the sign warning her not to touch France, the rare Pigmy
Porcupine, reached into France's Habitat box unhesitatingly and placed
her fingers against the neat rows of quills along France's back.

The results were immediate, explosive, and for anyone who is familiar
with France, either as her everyday Hedgehog self or in her temporary
guise as a rare Pigmy Porcupine, completely predictable. France hissed
like a rattlesnake, popped, bounced six inches up into the air. She
clenched like a spiked fist and quivered in rage. The little girl
shrieked, and wet her pants.(Just a little bit. Enough to know she had
done it, and that did nothing to improve her disposition!) Then she
began to sob, holding up the hand that had touched France and shaking
it like a hankie. Albert wailed because he couldn't be in the pool
anymore. His sister wailed because she had been scared out of her
selfish, tiny mind. Their Mother wailed because this was her life, and
their father bellowed because this was his. After almost ten seemingly
endless minutes the family left, the father virtually apoplectic at his
inability to find a hoomin associated with the Petting Zoo to yell at.

And they didn't leave a dollar.

More Tomorrow
Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5715]