Dear Ferret Folks-

I am not pleased with Ping is He. I was less pleased with Mr. He late
last night, around one in the morning. That is when I was awakened to
the sound of poultry in peril, and I just *knew* that I had a weasel
in the hen house.

I did.

That *amned ferret.

Ping and Puma were allowed to spend last night free roaming in the
house, out of their cage. I let them do this from time to time, it's a
nice way to break up their routine. They trot and sniff, explore the
house. Knock some stuff over. Then they find good sleeping spots, and
we collect them in the morning. That was the plan, anyway. Ping had
another plan. He waited until after we went to bed, and he started
jumping. Over and over again. One of his jumps (and it must have taken
him a good long time, because I made sure that there was no longer
anything for him to stand on if he wanted to try that jump) actually
allowed him to claw his way up onto the top of the wood box in the
living room. From there he turned into a puff of weasel smoke, and he
drifted out into the night through the cat door.

Again. And I was sure he couldn't make that jump, unassisted. Ha.
Ha-ha, hoomin.

From there, it was a short trot through the cool night grass to the
chicken coop. Yes, the chicken coop, the seat of Ping's unwholesome
obsession. The one with three fat, succulent teen-aged chickens inside.
Mind you, we had re-enforced the chicken enclosure for just this
possibility. We built a rectangular wooden frame that abuts the heavy
green wooden coop itself. Mindful of Ping's thirst for chicken blood, I
took a staple gun and stapled chicken wire to the frame, (even over the
top) making a sort of ferret-proof chicken vault. The chickens could
leave the coop, and be safe in the little grass yard inside the vault.
They really like going out and scratching in the dirt, turning the soil
over and looking for bugs. They like to sit down in the grass and bask
in the sun, occasionally scratching at the side of their heads with
lightning fast kicks. They fluff their feathers, and make peeping
noises that only they understand.

Well, I imagine that Ping climbed the wire and determined the
dimensions of the vault, and ascertained that he couldn't get in
at the chickens inside through any ordinary means. So he undertook
extraordinary means. Morning light revealed that he actually dug a
tunnel *beneath* one of the wooden beams of the vault's frame. No, it
had never occurred to me that my chicken vault needed a steel floor
to prevent weasels from burrowing in from beneath. It must have taken
a long time for him to dig that tunnel, but he really, really likes
chicken. A lot. And from his perspective he had nothin' but time,
nothin' but time.

I was sound asleep in my bed when I head the bucking, bellowing,
screeches from the back yard. If you have never heard how loud an angry
or terrified chicken can be, you simply cannot imagine the din. It
sounds like a terrorist attack. And from the chicken's point of view,
that is precisely what was occurring. An assassin had come in the night
with sharp fangs.

I bolted from my bed, and just like in any good horror movie, I was
wearing a long floaty white night gown. All I needed was a chorus of
people yelling "Don't go in the cellar! Don't go in the cellar, you're
in a horror movie!" I grabbed my flashlight and ran out into the night.
I got to the coop, and saw that my big barred-rock, Tina, was down on
the ground. Ping had her by the throat. I had to break into the vault
by tearing the wire off of the wooden frame with my bare hands in the
dark, but HA! HA! HA! Ping is He! I did it! And I pried his little jaws
open and Tina ran away. The little silver wyandotte was on the ground,
I thought she was dead. But no, she had a bad night but she is up and
eating today. The little buff roosterlet was dragging his wings on the
ground. I don't know if he was hurt, or if he was just scared out of
his mind. But he looks fine today. Tina is also fine, though
understandably subdued.

I'm thinking I need a ball and chain around one of Ping's furry little
ankles to keep him where he belongs. Maybe I should fill the cat doors'
tunnel with space invader foam, the stuff that dries hard like a rock.
Maybe I need concertina wire around the coop. Maybe I should electrify
it. Maybe I should build my poor chickens a bunker made from cinder
blocks. Maybe I need to get Ping some therapy for his pathological
obsession with poultry. He is NO LONGER allowed to spend time out of
his cage overnight. Nope.Not while the chickens live. Those days are
OVER, Ping. All done. And Puma? Don't you get any ideas.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6017]