Dear Ferret Folks- 

This has been a harder than usual New England winter. Harder in memory
for someone of my age (45 in a few days, half-way to 90!) My older
friends (70+) tell me that this is the sort of winter that they
remember from their childhoods. Scenic as all get-out, but with much
sharper teeth that the winters we have been having for the last 20 or
so years. I don't have to tell anyone on the East Coast that this
year, winter is *different*.

I'm not whining too hard, here. I lived in Minnesota for three years
and that taught me what winter could be if it felt like it. Something
that hit you in the face with a thump when you left the house, all
bundled up so that you were a polar-bear shaped lump of coats and
sweaters and long underwear and *dry* socks. Dry socks is a must for
serious winter. If your feet get wet, that's it. Playtime is over. Go
inside, immediately.

So although it is two above zero here (Fahrenheit) as I write this, I
can honestly say that I remember walking to school when it was 35 below
zero. The cut-off for canceling school was 40 below. We only missed one
day of school for bad weather in three years. Yesss, I do know winter.
Intimately. Two above is icky, but it could be *much* worse. I have a
whole laundry basket full of dry socks, just in case. Carry a spare
pair in my car.

From my cat Sterling's three year old point of view, however, this is
a hell of ice and snow deeper than he is tall in many spots. He no
longer goes into the woods to hunt, or spends the afternoon dozing in
his favourite hunting blind beneath the now frozen to the ground
twenty-foot trailer. He goes outside when nature makes demands on his
bladder. And returns, *very* quickly. He makes a token hunt amongst
the plowed out driveways and streets near the house at dawn and dusk,
then he's back inside--his silver gray fur lush and puffed like some
prehistoric animal that you might see drawn on an ancient cave wall
in France in agile strokes of black and red ocher. Paleo-cat.

The rest of the time he is either on my bed basking in the sunbeam
there, or atop his favourite perch in my living room. He loves to sit,
sphinx-like atop my old brown-wood Philco radio on a folded pad of
polar fleece that I keep there for him. He can look out the front
window for any sight of his orange and white nemesis across the street,
Mr. Princess Fluffy. (Once believed to be a *female* kitten by my
neighbours and named by their little girl, he is now generally called
"Fluffer Nutter" or Mr. Princess Fluffy by all the nieghbours who know
the story.) Sterling takes Mr. Princess Fluffy much more seriously than
any of us do.

But how, you may ask, do ferrets enter into any of this? Am I just
going to tell a funny storry about my cat and write "ferret" at the
end as Wolfy does from time to time in order to post her non-mustelid
funnies in this decidedly ferret forum? (Not a complaint, I get a kick
out of it and her.) Oh, no. Ferrets can and do enter this picture. And
I will tell you about that, tomorrow, now that I have set the scene.

"Ferret."

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6575]