All these biting stories bring a tear to my eye... sigh...
 
My first biter was Goose.  She was terribly sweet and loving to me.  She
hated the rest of the world on general principles.  Her most memorable
run-in was with my mother.  During one evening's frolic in the family
room, Mom took away a bean bag that was clearly (to Goose) the perfect
toy.  Mom moved it three times to keep it from Goose and three times
Goose plotted to find a way higher and higher to the prize.  Finally Mom
tucked it beside her in the Barcalounger (back in the day before I knew
the horrors of recliners).  Goose seemed to lose interest and moved on
to other toys.  That is until Mom stood up to leave the room.  Goose was
a little brown blur as she shot across the room.  She chomped my mother's
bare ankle in a viscious, premeditated drive-by.  Mom was stunned.
Obviously the ferret had just been waiting, biding her time until bare
skin was in range.  By the time Mom knew what hit her, Goose was about 6
feet away, licking her lips smugly.  While not proud of the little
monster, I was certainly impressed by her tenacity and patience.
 
Meisa was my second chomper.  She actually only would bite my sister,
but oh, what fun that was!  See, Miesa was a tiny, tiny little girl in
a herd of big, galumping weasel boys.  No one in our house was scared
of Miesa.  The boys could just sit on her and I would scoop her her
to shower kisses.  It was tragic really, as Miesa yearned to be a
Rottweiler.  She was desperate to strike fear in the hearts of all who
gazed upon her.  So imagine Miesa's complete and utter joy to finally
find a HUGE person that would run and squeal and climb furniture upon
seeing her.  Miesa knew the instant my sister entered my house.  She
would slink and stalk and work her way silently into the room, trying to
get to my sister before I could spot her little beige self and return
her to the ferret room.  The few times she did make it close and got the
requisite squeals and mayhem, her little chest would puff out and head
would go up and she would swagger, SWAGGER back to her hammie.  A four
inch tall, one and a half pound John Wayne.
 
Bear was my last unreformed biter.  While Goose plotted and planned her
bites and Miesa was specific in hers, Bear was more carefree and cavalier
with his.  He bite joyously and with wild abandon.  He liked biting,
loved biting, bit for the sheer fun of it all.  He especially liked to
wait until I climbed out of the shower and had my hands full with a hair
dryer and brush.  Then he would wind his way around my ankles, licking
nonchalantly.  He might even gently lay a paw on my calf and look up
adoringly.  Then he would sink those little canines right into my leg.
Stinker.  All of this was of course followed by a happy little dance as
he slung himself backwards and around the room.  He just loved, loved,
loved to chomp.  Never in all our years together was I able to break him
of it.  Time outs just recharged his batteries.  Scruffing him relaxed
him.  Bitter Apple was a condiment.  I tried everything to no avail.  I
finally gave up and accepted it as his little quirk.  It gave him such
joy it was truly hard to get mad at him.  I just learned to dry my hair
and do the Weasel Avoidance Dance at the same time.  I knew his time was
short when he quite biting me in the mornings.
 
Dang but I miss them all.
[Posted in FML issue 5364]