Dear Ferret Folks-

My home is a war zone. Yes, a war zone. Who are the combatants? It's
the war of the ferrets VS. Sterling the Silver cat.

Let me give you an idea of what it's like here in northern central
Massachusetts as I write this. It is a stunningly bright and fresh day.
Every branch, every twig is frosted with a coating of snow. I don't
mean a light dusting, I mean that every surface in the mixed hemlock
and and hardwood forest that *can* support snow cover is currently
carrying a thick burden of it. The evergreens usually shake the snow
off when their boughs become too heavy, sort of like a giant
half-closed umbrella shaking off the rain. But it snows every day, a
few more fluffy white inches, and we're starting to see freshly broken
boughs here and there that couldn't carry the weight anymore, even
among the evergreens. Sometimes it's hard to tell when it's actually
snowing, and when the breeze is sending cascades of silvery crystals
through the trees and surrounding air. When the wind blows gusts of
snow billow out from the edges of the forest. The world is wrapped in
the deep stillness that only a heavy snow cover brings, and the shadows
on the surface of the snow are that special blue color that is only
the color of shadows on snow.

It is beautiful here, beautiful.

But not to Sterling the Silver Cat. He stands, what, seventeen inches
tall at the tip of his soft gray ears? The snow cover here is deeper
than that, much deeper. In my yard it comes up to mid-thigh on me,
and I'm about five foot four. It's not that nasty granular end of the
season snow that has largely collapsed down flat, and is layered with
hard crusts of ice so that it will support your weight when you walk on
it. You can't walk on this powder. You can drag yourself through it,
wallow through it picking up each leg with care and effort, one at a
time. If you are Sterling, you simply sink into it, dragging your
belly, and having to rescue yourself by hopping a yard at a time until
you get to the thin circle of hard-packed snow surrounding the house
and driveway and wood pile. His world is limited to those areas, and to
the road out front. From his perspective, it is a barren expanse devoid
of mice. Sterling is a hunter. Spring, summer and fall, he spends each
dawn and dusk in the forest around us, looking for prey. And now, he
sits forlornly in front of our doors, looking out through the glass,
and wishing that he were racing through green stands of summer mountain
laurel and curling ferns, chasing....something. Anything.

He is starting to crack. He blasts in and out of his cat door, racing
from one end of the house to the other. He bounces off of the furniture
on these runs, knocking over his green carpeted two story cat tower.
He runs the length of the house and comes to a skidding halt at our
bedroom door. Then he turns like a Harrier Jet, and blasts off to the
other end of the house, and out the cat door again. Three minutes
later, he is back. If he is not engaged in this manic racing, he is
flat in his armchair, dead asleep and exhausted and strung out.

I think he would have lost it completely were it not for Ping and Puma.
They generally don't mind a little game of chase and "Tag! You're It"
with Sterling. Puma especially enjoys a game of "Hide and Seek" with
the *much* bigger cat. Sterling has only once that I know of been
rougher with them than I would wish. He once left a few scratches on
Puma's belly when she had his neck firmly grasped in her teeth, and the
two were rolling across the floor, knocking into things while Sterling
howled. I yelled and he let go, instantly. Not thirty seconds later
Puma started the game again, she was obviously not fearful of the cat.
Actually, neither Ping nor Puma is in the least fearful of the cat,
despite his much greater size. And from time to time, it is obvious
that the cat has a*great* deal of respect for the physical prowess of
the weasels, who are even faster than he is.

I have gotten used to the ever-present war games between the three of
them, ever since Sterling had to give up hunting outside. Many times
a day, CRASH! THUMP! Patter-patter-patter BANG! Dook-dook-dook
HIIIIS!HIIISS! CRASH! Sometimes *both* of the ferrets lurk beneath
a big piece of furniture, and wait for Sterling to pass by. Ambush!
Other times he silently stalks them as they run like greased lightning
from the protective cover of one piece of furniture to the other. A
frustrated Sterling just sits and waits futilely for a ferret to
venture out, his tail slapping on the ground. A sly, pointed snout
regards him from beneath the sofa, the piercing regard of the Carpet
Shark. And the next pitched battle begins.

I'm really waiting for spring. Really. You have no idea. CRASH! THUMP!
Patter-patter-patter BANG! Dook-dook-dook HIIIIS!HIIISS! CRASH!

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5840]