Dear Ferret Folks-
 
This morning, Ping is He, for some boneheaded reason, decided to take
his life into his paws.  I witnessed this from across the living room,
but was too far away to be anything but a dazed spectator.
 
My dog, the Noble Allis Chompers was lying down on the floor, minding
her own canine business while it was ferret playtime.  Ping and Puma ran
around, sniffed things, ducked under furniture, clawed the carpet beneath
the sofa, the ususal morning free-run behavior.  Allis was sitting
propped up on her elbows like the sphinx, watching silently.  That's
part of being sphinxlike.
 
Ping left Puma's side and trotted over to the dog, the long-suffering dog
who has taken a certain amount of garbage from ferrets over the years.
Ferrets in her food bowl.  Ferrets stealing her kibble, one nugget at a
time.  Ferrets drinking from her toilet.  Ferrets walking around in *her*
velvety green armchair...the list goes on.  Ping trotted up to Allis and
looked at her a long moment, no more than a foot away from her nose.  He
then stretched out, and for some incomprehensible reason, *bit* ber black
olive of a nose.
 
Munch.
 
Well, Allis said something in ancestral wolf language.  It involved a
show of fangs, a display of the full rack of sharp, pointy hardware and
curled back lips.  From Ping's perspective, it must have been like
standing in front of a nineteenth century steam locomotive clearing it's
throat.  The blast of hot, wet dog breath pasted his little ears back
against the sides of his head, and he wisely decided to R--U--N!!  RUN
AWAY!!
 
Well, I guess that goes to show that he does have a lick of sense, after
all.  Even if he does eat wasabi peas.
 
Allis never moved, just uttered this inhuman bellow of rage.  I mean, she
did not *move* on that ferret, whom she outweighed about fifty to one.
She knew the rules, and as much as Ping deserved to be knocked on his
*ss, she didn't touch one whisker on his head, didn't even bat him with
a paw.  Well, just about then I decided ferret playtime was OVER.  I
managed to coax ping out from behind the furniture, and returned him to
the safety of the ferret room.  He didn't put up a fight.  Puma followed
a minute later.
 
That left Allis Chompers, who by now had jumped up into her velvety green
armchair, and was cowering there, thinking "Oh by node, dere goink to
kill be!" I didn't kill her.  I reached my hand down and rubbed the top
of her head until her ears relaxed, and told her she was a good dog, a
very good dog.  My husband called her into the kitchen, and she jumped
out of her armchair with a look of disbelief, as she heard the grating
sound of the lid taken off of the ceramic John Deere cookie jar.
 
Cookies.  People cookies.
 
Allis was again praised, and given *two* people cookies, for not only
knowing the rules, but obeying them.  Then she was given a dog biscuit.
 
Her nose is fine.  Now that's a good dog!
 
Alexandra in MA
[Posted in FML issue 5039]