It is a soft August night in the Sargent-Colburn household.  The air is
fragrant with a thousand scents.Crickets and katy-dids go back and forth,
sawing out tunes on their raspy hind legs
 
Inside the house, there is a high pitched whine coming from the computer
room, just down the hall from Ping and Puma's Ferret Room, the one they
are NOT in, of course.  Lit by the blue glow of the computer monitor, we
can see two ferrets, one large, and one small, coo-operating to gather up
the white sheets of paper emerging from the Hi-Speed Printer.  They curl
into the tray one at a time, and are gathered up by several busy little
paws, working together smoothly.
 
The larger ferret speaks "Oh, Dude, this reeks!"
 
The smaller, wincing, eyes buring from the stench replies "Don't call me
Dude.  Yes, it certainly does.  Nothing is worse than Hoomin Poof.  And
they get US descented!"
 
The larger ferret apparently comes to some decision in his mind.  He says
"I'll be back, ah, Puma" , and jumps down from the computer table.
 
Puma, continuing to coallate the pages of yesterday's FML as it emerges
from the Printer, reaches deep inside of herself for Master Ho's Mantra.
She recites it tunelessly to herself, hoping to escape from the reality
of the stench.  She hears the telltale scratching of Ping opening the
refrigerator door in the kitchen (his best trick), and thrashing around
inside, but she is drifting,...drifting toward her Center....
 
THUMP!  Ping is back up on the computer table, dragging a raw strip of
bacon behind him like a pale, flabby winter scarf.  He squats down into
a comfortable position, and gnawing sounds can be heard, now that the
Printer has fallen silent.  Finally, he spits "PITOOEY!" and a little
pale square of the bacon is detached from the strip.  More gnawing, and
again, "PITOOEY!" Ping picks up one of the fallen squares and pastes it
in place over his nose, where it sticks, easily.  He pats it into place.
 
Ping, his home-made bandage in place elbows the drowsing Puma in the
side.  "Dute!  Put wun op dethe on yer node!"
 
Puma emerges from her trance with a SCREECH at the sight of Ping and his
raw bacon face mask, but she quickly realizes his purpose, and imitates
him, patting the second bacon square firmly into place over her own nose.
Now she can't smell a thing!  She does take the time to caution him,
though, "Don'd call be Dute."
 
Then, the real work of the night begins.  The two co-operate to dump the
pages into a black plastic Hefty Bag, and to drag it down the stairs by
the red plastic Handle-Tie Straps with their mouths..  The bag is dragged
the length of the lower driveway, and abandoned next to a large rectange
of newly turned dirt that the Dad Hoomin had recently roto-tilled to
control some really determined weeds.
 
Then, the John Deere 1020 tractor with the hydraullically operated
front-loading bucket was turned on by key, and left to idle, to warm
up.  The two ferrets perched in the tractor's seat had a moment of unease
when a light turned on upstairs, and the lace curtain in the kitchen was
pulled aside for several long moments only to be dropped again, and the
light to be switched off shortly afterwards.  They wheezed sighs of
releif through their open mouths, their noses, of course, firmly shielded
by the bacon squares.
 
There was an hour of backing and scraping and filling, but in the end,
it was well worth it.  Well worth it.  I wonder if there is any bacon
left in the refrigerator?  I hope *I* don't need it, tomorrow.
 
Alexandra in MA
[Posted in FML issue 4964]