Dear Ferret Folks-
We've had a certain amount of snow on the ground here over the last
week in my corner of New England. Our snow tends to heavy, wet, lodgy
stuff. Western skiers accustomed to flawless fluffy powder tend to look
down on our sludgy snow and tiny mountains, until they try a run down
one of them and find out the hard way that you really have to be a mad
*astard to strap waxed boards to your feet and launch yourself down a
surface that largely resembles stiff brownie batter, only made from
ice. It's fun watching Western skiers fall over screaming during their
first New England run. It is the evolution of *respect* in action.
As I said, heavy, wet, lodgy stuff. Almost greasy with a little sun on
it. My cat Sterling suffers greatly from it. I don't have a cat litter
box. The great North Woods is his litter box. The woods buried in snow.
It's up to his elbows, and every time he has to *rap all four paws get
completely soaked. If there is one thing that a cat REALLY hates,
it's getting wet. Especially *cold* and wet. He bounds into the house
through his cat flap and throws himself down heavily on his side next
to the wood stove and begins the laborious process of grooming each
individual toe, sucking out the ice-water from the gray fur and
straining it through his teeth. He does this with a completely
disgusted feline look on his face as many times a day as nature calls
him.
Sterling is a big, healthy eight-pound boy, a hunter. In the summer
his favoured prey are mice, in the winter the seed-feeders bring all
the song birds into the yard. He can tell you the relative gastronomic
merits of, say, a Titmouse VS a Red Cardinal. He is a connoisseur of
songbirds. He likes to hide along the edge of the woods in that
shifting band of shadows where the ferns rise up to meet the base of
the mountain laurel understory. He waits patiently, very patiently,
and from time to time I find a small sad whorl of abandoned feathers
in the snow, and I realize that another Chickadee has found it's way
into Sterling's belly. I don't blame Sterling, it is his nature.
But when the clouds clear and the sun shines, Sterling has to give up
hunting entirely as the whole outside world becomes a thin puddle of
melt water over mushy snow. He simply can't abide that. Think four
saturated paws sucking with each step through the sloppy snow.
(Shudder!) He gives up and stays inside, sleeping most of the day,
only going out for short periods at dawn and dusk or when his bladder
demands it.
And THAT is when the hunter becomes the hunted...because Caff-Pow
thinks it is *endlessly* engaging to hunt Sterling through every corner
of the house. Todd has very little interest in Sterling, they played
when Todd was a kit, good-natured wrestling games. But Todd has his own
daily routine now, stealing my Croc shoes and stuffing them beneath
the yellow sofa, looking for the bread bag to add to the Croc pile,
and just generally hunting for small objects made from rubber to
re-organize as he sees fit. And of course, checking the kitchen island
to see if any butter has been carelessly been left out for licking.
Caff-Pow does not really have a set routine, he just looks for
adventure wherever it can be found. And beating on a cat twice his
weight is apparently just the sort of adventure he craves. He has
learned all of the soft, quiet, out of the way spots that Sterling
likes to nap in. He searches them out, one after another. When he
discovers Sterling, the cat makes a sort of throttled growling bleat.
That sound? Generally means that the four pound Caff-Pow has managed to
sneak up on the sleeping cat, and has grabbed his face. Yes, his face.
Sterling purely *hates* that, and detaching Caff-Pow from his face is
no easy matter. Caff-Pow has big teeth, and a really hard head. So even
though Sterling throws the both of them to the hardwood floor, rolls
like an alligator, hisses and claws, Caff-Pow is tough to dislodge.
And when Sterling does de-ferret himself, the ferret simply follows!
And the whole process repeats itself from one end of the house to the
other. Furniture is overturned. Things are knocked off of tables. There
is hissing and growling and through it all, the eager panting hiss of
the *delighted*, puff-tailed ferret.
"Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!"
Caff-Pow never, ever tires of this activity. Sterling tires of it
immediately. Even to the point that he will sometimes launch himself
outside through the cat door into the great melting North Woods, there
to become bone-cold and sodden once more. He doesn't stay out long,
though. Cats do not suffer well. And when he comes back in, Caff-Pow
is waiting. Nose wet, whiskers lifted, ears alert, eyes shiny! He can't
*wait* for another round!
Lately I have taken to Emergency Containment Rules for Caff-Pow, so
that the poor cat can get a break. Once Caff-Pow finds where the cat
is sleeping and has started throttling him, I separate them and lock
Caff-Pow into the Computer Room where he has lots of room to play, his
open cage with food and water and hammies. It's not where he wants to
be (imagine half an hour of clawing and door-jiggling) but it is much
better then keeping him caged up to spare the cat. Eventually the
weather will shift (This is New England, trust me, it will find
something more inventive and perverse to do sooner rather than later)
and the cat will be able to spend his days outside the way he prefers,
and the hunter will no longer be the hunted.
Alexandra in MA
[Posted in FML 6548]
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