Dear Ferret Folks-

We had a rare dry interval the other day. Apart from that, it seems to
rain ceaselessly. I decided to put the boys in their little harnesses
and leashes and take them out for a walk. We had beautiful buttery June
sun. The daisies were out, there was birdsong everywhere. The leaves
were fresh and green, a hundred different shades of green. They made
the most beautiful sussurating sounds in the breeze. The day smelled of
fresh grass and damp earth. Good, rich smellls. The boys really like
interesting smells.

Todd was *not* convinced that he liked being outside at all. He was
only happy when he could have a good clump of long grass over his head,
protecting him from all of that sky. Caff-Pow, however, thought that
this was just the most fun ever. It's not that I really took them for
a walk, it's that Caff-Pow tried to take Todd for a drag down our
dirt road. I had pity on poor Todd and carried him on my shoulder.
He thought that was OK, he could still smell exciting things from up
there.

And there were many exciting things...a small stream running by the
side of the road to splash in, frogs to scare, the deep, cool air that
wafts out from a mature hemlock forest even on the warmest day. There
were sandy places along the stream to dig. Snorkeling in the stream,
blowing bubbles out of his nose. Caff-Pow would probably have done
that all day if I had let him. By the time I decided I was ready to
go inside, Caff-Pow was sandy, muddy, wet, with scraps of moss caught
between his toes. He was a very happy boy. I simply gave a gentle tug
on his leash to send him back home, and ran at a good clip through the
stream course back to the house.

We had gotten most of the way back to the house when we ran into Tina,
my smart black and white checked Barred Rock hen. She and the rest of
her flockmates were out for a walk on the nice day, too. I let them
free range during the day, but coop them by night to protect them from
the local predators. Skunks. Opossums. Foxes. They all like chicken
dinners. We have a local bear family, but I don't think they much like
yards with dogs. They have not troubled us, in any event. They greatly
troubled my neighbour a few weeks ago when he saw a small black bear
cub fall from a tree and land right on his front lawn. He was doing
yardwork at the time. Mindful of MAMA bear, who had to be somewhere
close by, he simply dropped his tools where they fell and went inside
for a long, long time. Good plan. MAMA bears have no sense of humor.

Now, as I said Tina is the *smart* hen. She knows her name, and comes
when called. When I want the flock for some reason and it is slow to
come, I call for Tina specifically and she leads the flock back into
the yard. Tina never, ever forgets anything. Especially the two times
that the late lamented Ping is He managed to slip out of the house
through the cat door, and sneak into the chicken coop. First thing I
do when the boys come out for romp n' stomp in the house, now? Close
the CAT DOOR. Much to the disgust of Sterling, the Silver cat. He has
occasionally wunked his head against his door, assuming that it will be
open 24 hours a day. Nope, sorry. Close the back door. Close the toilet
lid. Close the cat door. All these things are done when the boys come
out to play.

Well, Tina saw the boys and let out her most terrible noise, the
dreaded "SKWAA!" that is the most serious of the calls that the
chickens ever make. They have a number of calls, the most amusing of
which is the crowing that the rooster, Three-Bucks makes for pure joy
whenever he gets laid. He has five wives. He gets laid less than one
might imagine, but apparently it is always a cause for celebration.

SKWAA!

None of the other chickens remembered Ping is He loose in the coop.
They came to live here after his time, and after the time when the evil
hunting cat who lives on First Street (we live on third) laid waste to
half a dozen half-grown hens one day, Tina's sisters. But they all
know what SKWAA! means. Trouble, serious trouble. Well, the rooster
heard Tina's distress call and he came a runnin', massive drumsticks
pistoning as he ran. He took one look at the boys and yelled in
ancestral chicken "WEASEL!" So all af his wives (except Tina, who is
remarkably brave) slipped into the woods and disappeared. I could hear
them though. Oh, lord, what a hue and cry they put out!

Three-Bucks puffed himself up like a turkey and lowered his head for a
charge. He was going to protect his wives with those two HUGE spikes he
has on the back of his calves, his spurs. Fully two inches long, and
very sharp. Caff-Pow decided it was time to climb up me for safety,
just as Todd decided that the top of my head might be a better place
to cower than my shoulder. I helped Caff-Pow by simply lifting him
straight up with his leash. He decided that the top of my head was also
the happenin' place to be. Guess what? There is not room on the top of
my head for two terrified weasels.

SKWAA!! 
SKWAA!! 
SKWAA!! 

Tina did not let up, not for a second. She was like a living, breathing
air-raid siren.

I hustled for my front door, fully expecting to be attacked from behind
by an enraged Predue Oven-Stuffer Roaster. It's hard to run while
simultaneously protecting your weasels, and trying not to be scalped by
them. I managed. I got to the front door and dove inside. I sat down to
rest, and just let the lads run, trailing their leashes behind them.
After a minute or so, I saw four little eyes peek out from beneath the
sofa.

More SKWAA!! SKWAA! SKWAA! from outside for a full five minutes. The
sound made the boys visibly flinch.

Finally, the call stopped, Three-Bucks stood down from his Def-Con
status and the other wives re-appeard from the woods. But the whole
flock was edgey for a full 24 hours. I only got one egg the next day.
Next time I bring the boys out for a walk? Early morning, while the
chickens are cooped up. We keep them in their coop until nine-thirty
or so, so as not to annoy any of my late-sleeping neighbours.

Lesson learned, lesson learned.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6365]