I am waiting for them.  It is seven in the morning in the middle of
September.  I listen for the planes outside, the whining of their engines
rising as they taxi closer to where I'm working.  I'm a security guard
at one of the major airline's air cargo centers.  I know they're coming,
but I don't know exactly which days they'll arrive.  I keep my eyes open,
watching for them.  There are just a few people here with me.  There are
always just a few people here during working hours, labeling boxes,
stacking boxes, driving forklifts, or sometimes just watching TV between
arrivals.  To these people, what I'm waiting for are just packages, but
to me they are so much more.
 
A forklift rolls in, and I see them come in.  I recognize the small
wooden slats of the crates, measuring a foot and a half by two feet.
There are two crates, one stacked on top of the other.  They are on top
of some bigger, heavier cargo - electrical components of some kind, bags
of coolers containing medical specimens, and a few cardboard boxes with
hazmat labels, all placed on the same pallet.  The forklift drops them
with a thud and drives off.  I have to hurry.  I only have so much time
to do what I need to do.  I walk quickly to the pallet of crates.  As I
get closer, tiny sets of eyes peer through the slats following the sound
of my footsteps.  I lean down and look through the slats of the top
crate.  There are about twenty kits, and most of them are awake.  The
rest are asleep, exhausted from the ordeal of their flight.  The ones
that are awake are excited by my presence.  Some of the kits lick my nose
while my face is against the slats.  I hear a commotion from the bottom
crate, and I move my face down and peer inside.  This crate contains
roughly another twenty kits, some standing on their back legs, noses
sticking out from between the slats, watching me in curiosity.
 
The floors of both crates are an absolute mess.  In a corner of each
crate are two cans.  One can has a tiny bit of water in the bottom, mixed
with some feces.  The majority of the water has spilled out of the can
and has dampened the pine shavings that the kits are using as bedding.
The other can contains a few pieces of kibble that somehow managed to
stay in place during the flight.  The rest of the kibble is spread
throughout the floor of the crate, mixed in with damp shavings and more
feces.  The conditions of both crates are the same.  This is how the kits
have traveled for hours.
 
The cans are not very big, about the size of small tomato sauce cans.
Not very much food and water for twenty kits, it would seem.  And now
the cans are fouled and nearly empty.  I reach into my coat and pull out
my plastic sports bottle.  I fill it with fresh water from the water
fountain.  Slowly, I squeeze the bottle to release the water.  I place
the tip between the slats where the kits can reach it easily, but there
are too many.  The kits who are awake fight each other for a few licks
from the bottle.  They are so thirsty.  They push and shove each other
for the water, sometimes crawling on top of each other to get to the
bottle, and sometimes pushing themselves up from the bottom.  Almost all
of the sleeping kits are awake now, roused by the commotion, and they
join the melee.  There are just too many, and even though I can refill
the bottle, none are getting very much water as I stand in one place.  I
walk around the crate, sliding the water bottle between the slats, moving
the bottle so that each of the kits can get a decent drink.  After slowly
walking around the top crate quite a few times, I move the bottle down to
the bottom crate and circle around it in the same manner.  The entire
time, kits from both crates follow me as I circle around them, every once
in a while standing on their back feet and sticking their noses out,
vying for my attention.  They are so cute, and as much as I want to
stroke their little noses, I simply can't.  There's not enough time.
 
I hear the whining of the jet engines getting louder.  I have to hurry.
More planes are coming in, and these pallets will probably be moved to
make room for the newly arrived cargo.  I don't always know where they
take them.  I refill the water bottle at the drinking fountain.  I then
squirt streams of water into all four cans in an effort to clean them.
It is not a perfect job, but the cans are cleaner than they were before.
Even as I'm doing this, the kits are trying to drink the dirty water
that's streaming from the cans.  Once finished, I fill one can in each
crate with water.  I then pull a bag of kibble I have brought from home
out of my coat pocket and fill the other two cans with the kibble.  A
small scramble ensues, and the kits eat and drink from all four cans.
They are no longer moving in the belly of a plane, so they should be OK.
My job requires that I attend to other, more official duties.  I have
to leave the kits now.  I need to make my rounds.  The pet stores are
supposed to send someone to pick up the kits as soon as possible after
they arrive, but often that doesn't happen.  If the kits are not picked
up within a few hours, they are stored with luggage and other freight in
a secured area, sometimes until the next morning.  This is the last I
will probably see of them.
 
It is the next morning; it is September eleventh.  It is just after nine
in the morning and all the freight-handlers are watching TV.  There is
nothing to do.  All planes have been grounded.  One of our planes has
been flown into one of the Twin Towers, probably by terrorists.  Shortly
afterwards, another company's plane hits the other tower.  Everyone is
in shock.  The fiery crashes are replayed over and over again, and we
watch in disbelief.  I realize that I will not be seeing any thirsty kits
today.  Most of our planes transport animals, and my heart sinks as I
wonder about the plane that hit the tower.  I reach into my pocket and
feel my sports bottle, pathetically empty and useless.  I close my eyes
and think back to all those tiny noses between the slats, thirsty and
looking for attention...
 
Later, when I get home from work, the first thing I see as I walk in
the door are my own tiny noses, sticking out of the bars of their cage,
waiting for me as they always do.  And even though their water bottles
are mostly full, I empty and refill them - just because I can.
 
       -----------------------------------------------
 
This story was relayed to me a few years ago by my wife, who worked as
a contract security guard at an airport.  I put her story into words,
simply so that you could have a better understanding of why the Standards
for Ferrets eDocket is so important:
 
Standards for Ferrets eDocket:
http://docket.epa.gov/edkfed/do/EDKStaffCollectionDetailViewByID
?collectionId=APHIS-2005-0063
(if this link doesn't take you directly there, then go to the top and do
an 'advanced search' for docket # APHIS-2005-0063.  That should take you
right where you want to go.)
 
The government is giving up a chance to voice our opinions on the
standards for ferret handling and care.  They are asking for people
with experience with ferrets to give their opinions about rules and
regulations that will eventually be put into place.  It is a great
opportunity for us, and we need to utilize it by giving them information
about ferrets that only we can provide.
 
I know many, many of you have your own simular stories.  At the very
least, submit a comment, in your own words, telling them why ferrets need
special care and handling.  Better yet, for more impact, send them snail
mail on this subject.
 
This is our chance to make a difference in how the animals we love and
care for are treated on an every-day basis.  Let's not waste this
opportunity.
 
Roary
Albuquerque, NM
http://ferretphilosophy.blogspot.com
[Posted in FML issue 4970]