Dear Ferret Folks-

Every day I have reminders that Ping and Puma are not with us, anymore.
Happy memories, some terribly bitter-sweet.

I no longer have any healing slash-marks on my shins from Puma. When
I squeeze the squeakie, she does not lunge for me from beneath the
furniture like a great white shark, power-striking. Hebert is even
learning not to bite my feet. I have used a few puffs of mist from my
spray-bottle pretty consistently since he arrived, and he is no longer
irresistibly drawn to toes. It is so odd not to get *bitten* anymore.
Life with Puma involved getting bitten on an almost daily basis.

The cat is pleased to have his cat-door back full-time, it is no longer
closed so that Ping can't make that amazing 28 inch vertical leap up to
it, and sneak out of the house. Todd is a great horizontal leaper, but
Ping was the king of straight up. 28 inches may not sound like much to
you on paper. Measure it. Ping was one hell of an athlete. My sweet
pygmy wolverine...

Neither Todd nor Hebert can make the leap, nor do they even try.
Accordingly, we have enlarged our flock of chickens because I don't
have to worry about any blood-thirsty weasels. At least not any
*domestic* ones. We've done battle with 'coons and skunks. Who knows
who is still lurking out there in the swamp. My aunt lost all of her
peacocks to a little bitty wild weasel, one that would have sat
comfortably in the palm of her hand. My husband just built a new,
larger chicken coop that is the envy of chickens everywhere. I tell
people that it is the premiere chicken destination on the east coast,
forget Foxwoods and the Mohegan Sun. As I type this I hear the sound
of loud, raw, chicken sex. The new rooster is settling in well,
apparently.

Many things remain the same, many things are different. Todd and Hebert
are fine companions, but we are still learning about one another. Todd
has forced us to use that wonderful ceramic butter crock that the
Greenlee Bunch sent him. There is no longer a stick of Land O' Lakes
beneath the yellow sofa. Hebert has stashed every single rubber item
we have in the house at least once. Alternate storage solutions have
become necessary. And Todd continues to challenge my love of ziplock
bags for the organization of small objects. I now know the sound of
plastic dragging on the hardwood floor. I practically hear it in my
dreams.

And yes, sometimes I dream of two small grey weasels, one with a
burglar's mask, and one with a mean look in her eye. And in the
morning I re-arrange my feelings like Leggos, trying them out in new
configurations. The guilt goes over here, the love here. The joy fits
snugly into the sorrow, and the whole thing is held together with a
few stinging "What If's" thrown in for good measure. I'll never be
satisfied with the result. Every day I try a new architecture. And
life tries me, and life tries all of us. It's what we all have in
common, the wisest and the worst of us. It's what makes us...hoomin.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6149]