Now, don't take this the wrong way, but for the longest time, I have been
trying to imitate my ferret.
 
Not his look, which is furry and sable brown.  Not his walk, which, as with
most ferrets, is more of a waddle than a walk.  Certainly not his dance,
that because of my leg brace, would be a physical impossibility.  Nor do
I envy his tail.  I don't need a tail.  I have enough trouble buckling my
pants as it is.
 
Also, I can live without his bathroom habits, which can be summed up this
way: "This corner or that corner?  What about that corner over there?
Heck, how about the corner where Paw Paw parks his walking stick?"
 
No, what I admire about my ferret is his fascination with the simple
routines of life.  Every day for him is like boarding the space shuttle.
 
For example: In the morning, I tumble out of bed, grumble, yawn, make
rude noises, open the door, and ta-da!  There he is, the ferret answer
to Richard Simmons.  He's so worked up; he doesn't know which way to go,
toward me or away from me.  So he does both, all the while bouncing a
bounce that would shame any self-respecting rabbit.
 
"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he seems to say. "It's morning and I'm gonna eat!
Then I'm going to play and hide stuff and act the fool until nap time."
 
Never mind that he's eaten and played every morning since he was born.  Or
that he's had the same food every day since he was born -- and that was 6
years ago.
 
Never mind.  He dances under my feet all the way to the kitchen and waits
breathlessly as I scoop yet another helping of boring brown nuggets into
his bowl.
 
"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!  Food, food, food!"
 
I yawn.  He yawns.  Then a nap-attack hits and he sprawls out and becomes
instantly comatose, with his pointy little nose still buried in the Iams.
 
Ten minutes later, he's awake and off the food thing and into a new
obsession: going out to "help" me pick up the morning paper.  He runs
forward and backward, trying to remember which hidey-hole he stashed his
harness and leash in.  "I'm going out!  I'm going out!  Oh boy!  Is this
great or what?"
 
Never mind that going out has not changed one bit since we've lived here.
He is so thrilled by the notion of "exit" that he almost stares a hole
through the front door.  He bolts into the front yard, testing the tensile
strength of his leash as if heading for Tomorrow Land with a sack full of
"E" tickets.
 
I slouch and yawn again.
 
Then comes the "bathroom" routine, which I have already described.  Humans
deal with these functions begrudgingly.  Not my ferret.  It's a real thrill
for him.  He scouts for the perfect corner as if looking for beach-front
real estate.  "So many corners to choose from outside, so little time!
And trees too!  Hey, how 'bout right here on the front stoop!"
 
Then, once his business is taken care of -- and I make a mental note where
not to step - he's off the going out obsession and onto a new one: going
back in.
 
It doesn't matter that he was in just two minutes ago.  "Things have
changed!  Things have changed!" he seems to dook.  "I gotta get in there!
I gotta check it out!  Hurry up, hurry up!"
 
When I open the door, he bolts in, races back and forth -- looking for
space aliens, I suppose -- and when he doesn't find any, he isn't
disappointed.  Instead, he grabs some ratty toy he's played with for
months, throws it into the air with his teeth, and watches it land.
"Look at that!" he seems to say.  "It goes up, it comes down!  And it
squeaks too!"
 
As I make a cup of coffee, he suddenly materializes on the countertop to
watch.  (How does he do that?)  "Whatcha doin'?  Whatcha doin'?  Coffee,
huh?  That's amazing!"
 
Then he jumps down, lands with a splat and clamps his teeth onto my
pant-leg and does a dance that, were it the early '50s, I might call the
"Hootchie Coo." I'm not sure what he gets out of this -- "Oh boy, a leg!
Oh boy, a leg!" -- but he seems to be having a better time than I've ever
had.
 
When I disengage and disappear behind the door of the computer room, he
burrows under the hall carpet, sticks his whiskered nose out and waits for
me to come out again.  Even if it's only 30 seconds later, he'll still
react as if I was a released hostage.
 
Now, my ferret does not work.  He doesn't pay taxes.  He doesn't create
anything new (unless you consider the contents of the hall corner).  But he
also doesn't need clothes, doesn't covet cars or jewelry, and doesn't care
about houses, as long as he can find a sunny spot on the floor and snooze
there for a few hours.
 
Meanwhile, I'm pretty bored with my same old routine.
 
Getting up is a drag.  I can't get excited about breakfast.  And going out
then coming back in only makes me wonder how many flies I've let in.
 
So I'm trying to imitate my ferret.  I'm trying to find wonder in the
everyday.  After all, when you think about it, it's pretty remarkable that
you open your eyes every morning.  And since you get to quench your hunger
every few hours , well, that's a thrill too, when you consider the
alternative.
 
So while I can't match my ferret's crazy dance, I'm trying to match his
zeal.  Don't worry.  If you come to visit, I won't clamp onto your leg and
do the Hootchie Coo.
 
On the other hand, that sunny spot on the floor looks mighty tempting...
 
Joy to the World!
 
Paw Paw (With a little help from Tater and Odie)
 
http://members.aol.com/emssandy/personal.htm
[Posted in FML issue 3027]