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]