Dear Ferret Folks (All except Todd, who ADMITS to training Ping at his Fuzzbutt Rodeo Al-Queda Training Camp for Ferrets)- Oh, I suppose it was only a matter of time. Yesterday morning my little nephew Alexander stood in front of the Ferret Room door (his ususl first stop at my house) and used his limited two year old vocabulary to indicate that something was NOT right. He yelled "Stuck! Stuck!" with great fervor. I went to look, and sure enough, there was Ping. Stuck. In France, the 'Fricken Pigmy Hedgehog's closet, behind her plexiglass barrier. He had figured out how to get in there, but not out. France wanted him out. Badly. He was obliviously standing on top of her, while she cowered beneath her cotton t-shirt blanket, hissing, spitting, and popping in impotent fury, while he repeatedly tried, and failed, to leap her barrier and return to the Ferret Room. Trapped as she was beneath his weight and the padding of the t-shirt, she could neither gouge him with her spikes, not sink her small, but quite servicable insectivore's teeth into his flesh. She wished to do both, either, she wished to call in an airstrike with F-14's, she wished she was a hand-grenade, and she could reach her own pin, pull it, and blow Ping straight to hell. I removed Ping, with some dismay, from France's closet. Ten minutes later, I removed Ping, with greatly strained patience, from France's closet. Two minutes later, I removed Ping, with extreme prejudice from France's closet. Thirty seconds later, he went for it again. I locked him in the cat carrier while I constructed a temporary ferret-baffle for the top of France's plexiglass barrier. I took two liter plastic soda bottles, and slit their bellies lengthwise, and pushed them slit down onto the top edge of the barrier. Now there was no easy surface for Ping to grab, and heave himself up and over. It worked. For a while. It worked while Ping took a nice refreshing nap. It worked less well once he woke up. By then, my husband was home. I told him that we would have to do something about the plexiglass barriers. They would have to be replaced with higher ones. I told him what had been done to France. He got mad. He put down his dinner to look at the situation. By then, Ping was feeling as fresh as a daisy, had figured out a way around the soda bottles, and was contentedly squatting on the floor of France's closet, eating her supper of diced roast chicken one savory chunk at a time while she hid beneath her exercise wheel and made a noise that sounded like the transmission about to blow out of an overstressed Chevy Nova, one of the old, muscle car ones with the really big engines. It occurred to me with some horror, that NO DOUBT, that was why Ping had jumped in there in the first place, to eat her dinner the night *before* (cold chunked roast chicken again!) She was, on top of every other outrage, *hungry*! A pigmy wolverine had muscled his way into her territory and scarfed all of her food! He was doing it again! My husband is a kind man, and sometimes an impulsive one. France's plight moved him to do something that we all later regretted: me, my husband, Ping, but I think mostly France. My husband quickly stepped past me, and with a bellowed something to the effect of "I"LL SHOW THAT LITTLE *&^%!!!! , he dumped his full glass of water on top of Ping, who shuddered, but never dropped his chicken chunk. From France's perspective, this must have been like a scene in a movie when there is a wildfire, and helicopters carrying huge tubs of water dump them on flaming hillsides to save our heroes, the embattled smoke-jumpers, there on the ground trying to make a firebreak with their shovels and chainsaws. There was immediate silence from France. We were all silent, contemplating the awesome reality before us, a wet-newspaper lined closet full of ....what to call it....hedgehog broth? A thin, evil bullion made from hedgehog waste and cold water and newspaper pulp? I just looked at it and sighed, wondering where the paper towels were. And the trash bags. And clean newspaper. This was not an evil that coulld be ignored. It had to be addressed, immediately. Ping just splashed about in it, chewing, eyeing my husband nervously, his fur in wet spikes. My husband went for tools, I went for cleaning supplies. Ten minutes later, France had a clean, dry closet lined with fresh newspaper, and her little hedgehog-shaped food dish was once again heaped with chunks of cold roast chicken. She had a new t-shirt. She returned to hiding beneath her exercise wheel. Ping was returned to the cat carrier. My husband removed the steel backing plate from our dryer, and screwed it into place in front of France's door, just in front of her plexiglass barrier. Ping can't jump it, though he tried for several hours. Nor can Ping claw his way through the circular hole in the backing plate that the dryer vent hose used to go through. There is a thick layer of duct tape over it. Lily asked could she please spend the night out in the house, instead of inside the Ferret Room with Ping? Permission was granted. She burrowed into the living room sofa, and slept well while Ping battered at the steel plate all night long. France, who is nocturnal, did not give a damn that Ping battered at the steel plate all night long. Both of them turned in around dawn. France ate every speck of chicken, licked the bowl clean. I'm going to Home Depot, now. [Posted in FML issue 4847]