Dear Ferret Folks-

Today was clean the cage day. Specifically, it was clean the litter
pan day. And every time I'm doing that I remember all the people who
have asked me "I hear that ferrets smell. Do they=3F" And I say "No, not
if you keep ahead of their litter pan." Well, my head was *inside*\
the cage, and I had not kept ahead of the litter pan. It smelled. It
smelled a whole lot. And it took a certain amount of effort on my part
to eradicate that smell. We all have our own methods. For me, this
was an occasion for paper towels, Nature's Miracle in a spray bottle,
Windex, fresh Newspaper, and pelleted Yesterday's News. Oh, yes. And
rubber gloves.

They say virtue is its own reward. Clearly, getting behind on the
litter pan is a vice. Clearly.

Well, I was spraying and swabbing and wheezing and it finally occured
to me that I didn't hear the boys. I didn't hear them *at all.* I
hadn't heard them in a while, actually. That is bad. That is very bad.
I got up from my creaky knees and explored. There was Todd, no problem.
Todd likes to stay inside the house. Everybody likes Todd. I like Todd.
But I did not see Caff-Pow. Caff-Pow enjoys leaving the house. Not
everybody likes Caff-Pow. Right now, I didn't like Caff-Pow. Sure
enough, a few minutes of searching revealed a small tear in my window
screen, hidden behind a box fan. There were a few soft gray hairs
caught in the ragged edge.

Hmmm. Must think like a ferret...where would a ferret go=3F Well, a
weasel is a weasel, and nine out of ten weasels surveyed say that the
hen house is THE place to go. So I walked over to the chicken coop. No,
he wasn't in there, just the silver laced Wyandotte hen who has decided
to be broody and stay in the nest. Okay, thinkin' like a weasel. It
came to me, and I cringed. Inside my tool shed right now are two cages
containing five baby turkeys and seven baby chickens. That's like,
all-organic weasel buffet. I sped over and sure enough, Caff-Pow
whirled upon hearing me come and hid behind one of my husband's heavier
pieces of broken crap. (He is a collector.) There was no way, just no
way I was going to be able to catch him. I would need a squeakie, the
shrill one that he can't ignore. It is a small red rubber chicken with
yellow feet and beak. It is the only one that reliably works on him.
Todd is easy, any old squeakie holds mesmerizing power over him. Not
so with Caff-Pow. He is a tough case.

The squeakie, the squeakie...where was the squeakie...not in any
*reasonable* place. Not where it and the other squeakies were supposed
to be. I took a flashlight and looked beneath the heaviest pieces of
furniture and sure enough, I could *barely* see the cartoon colors of
the red and yellow rubber chicken under there, too far back to grab. I
re-negotiated my posture in a particularly unwieldy fashion and reached
under with one arm. Nope...couldn't quite...I looked back again with
the flashlight and there was Todd, under the sofa. And every time my
fingers touched the squeakie Todd would take it in his teeth and move
it just an inch or two farther back and out of my reach. Just an inch.

It was clear, then, that I had been out-maneuvered. They were *in it
together.* Todd was in charge of playing "Keep Away" with the only
squeakie that held power over Caff-Pow, and in return Caff-Pow was
going to bring back a nice fat chick for Todd. After *he* had dined, of
course. As they say in old cowboy Westerns, "They was in it together!"
Yes, it was a conspiracy. One that would have made even Bernie Madoff's
black little heart leap in his chest in pure admiration. A *conspiracy*
of the highest order. "They was in it together!"

I went and got what I call "The Hook." It is a white painted length of
tubing that is all that is left of a former two-piece curtain rod. It
is about three feet of straight length with a gently curved hook on
one end. I have found many uses for it over time. On this particular
morning I used it to grab the squeakie while simultaneously denying it
to Todd, who was doing his best to retrieve it. I didn't even want to
think about what Caff-Pow might be doing. Some things are just too
horrible to contemplate. He had been fed chicks as a youth in Virgina,
and no doubt he was trying to find a way up and into the cages. It
would be difficult, but he is tenacious. And he had Todd working for
him. His *agent.*

After several unsuccessful tries I managed to batt Todd away from
the tiny rubber chicken and grab it for myself. I hurried outside,
squeaking. After about thirty seconds a particularly frazzled looking
Caff-Pow's head popped up out of the grass tussocks by the tool shed.
"Oh, no...she has the squeakie..." and he started walking toward me
as if drugged, held resentfully in its red and yellow cartoon color
thrall. Squeak squeak! A step. Squeak squeak squeak! Another. Until
finally, he was mine. I went and looked at the cages, both were intact
with the proper number of birds inside, none the worse for wear. The
same couldn't be said for me, Todd, or Caff-Pow. We were all *issed-off
at one another just generally grumpy by that time. I was particularly
grumpy at the thought that now I had a tear in my window screen, no
doubt made by weasel teeth that would have to be mended. I'm thinking
duct tape for the tear. And maybe duct taping the weasels to the floor.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6716]