Dear Ferret Folks-

We had an *event* the other night, here at home. It was a hot night,
and my husband and I were sleeping thin sleeps beneath the rotary
ceiling fan. It was the type of night that makes sleep a burden. You
wake up bleary eyed the next morning, and shuffle over to the nearest
coffee pot in a daze. It was that kind of hot.

Around three in the morning I heard a sound, a terrible sound. It was
Tina, my Barred-Rock hen yelling from her coop "HELP!! I'M BEING
MURDERED!"

Ogod ogod ogod. I was up and out of bed instantly, running for the back
door. Tina! My beloved Barred-Rock Hen! I knew that her companion the
much younger Buff Orpington hen could not possibly make a noise that
loud. It was Tina, and she was in trouble.

I fumbled for a flashlight. My husband was only a step behind me, and
he was cursing. "Ping! *amn you Ping!"

Ping? He was in his cage. I *knew* he was in his cage with Puma. Wasn't
he? Could he possibly have teleported out of his cage to menace the
chickens *again*?

I ran back to the ferret's room to check, and my husband, wearing
nothing but his birthday suit, a pair of black canvas flats, and a long
blond pony tail ran (I have to say it) BUCK naked out into the night
with the flashlight, the dog, the Noble Allis Chompers at his side. I
did a quick check and yelled "It's not Ping!" My husband then bellowed
into the night "GET 'EM, CHOMPS!"

And Allis Chompers flew to the coop, flew like a night bird across the
yard and from there to the edge of the yard and beyond, into the dark
tangle of swamp behind the coop. I could hear snapping and thrashing as
she shouldered her way through the high bush blueberry. She wasn't just
entertaining herself, either. She was in hot pursuit of *something*.
Something that was running for its life.

Now if I had been, say, a fox or a raccoon or a possum (yes, dumb
as they are they will take chickens if they can) and I had seen the
enraged, cursing, naked, son of a professional truck driver running
at me starkers through the moon-lit night with a club of a flashlight
clenched in his fist, *I* would have dropped the hen and run. But I
suspect it was the sight of the snarling dog that actually did the
trick. In any event, the thief dropped the hen and ran for its life.
Chompers was gone for a long time, a long time.

My husband found Tina behind the coop, stunned on the ground and
missing numerous feathers. I picked her up and brought her inside and
did what I could for her, which wasn't much beyond checking her out and
stroking her soothingly until she was willing to stand on her own two
feet again. The thief had sunk teeth into her left ankle, deeply. He
had ingressed through a small corner of the chicken wire that I used
to pin back with a nail. That was the flap that let me into the coop.
Was it pinned back tightly enough? Obviously not .He had pulled Tina
completely out into the night through the loose corner. It couldn't
have been an easy trick, but he was obviously motivated.

Needless to say, the flap has been adjusted, and we are not going to
have a repeat of that. Tina is up and around, although favoring one
foot. The morning light revealed what I believe is a tuft of raccoon
fur caught in the wire. Ping was sort of watchful in the morning. He
had been awakened in the night with that hoomin bellow of "Ping! *amn
you Ping!" and that couldn't have been pleasant. When I did my hurried
head count the night before he had looked up at me from his hammie with
an expression of "Huh? Wuh?", his head fur mashed to one side from
having Puma sleep against him. Puma had given me an evil look that had
been a silent hiss of displeasure. For once in his life, maybe the only
time, Ping was innocent. Totally innocent. I hope he's savoring it. It
doesn't happen every day around here.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6038]