Dear Ferret Folks- We've had a certain amount of snow on the ground here over the last week in my corner of New England. Our snow tends to heavy, wet, lodgy stuff. Western skiers accustomed to flawless fluffy powder tend to look down on our sludgy snow and tiny mountains, until they try a run down one of them and find out the hard way that you really have to be a mad *astard to strap waxed boards to your feet and launch yourself down a surface that largely resembles stiff brownie batter, only made from ice. It's fun watching Western skiers fall over screaming during their first New England run. It is the evolution of *respect* in action. As I said, heavy, wet, lodgy stuff. Almost greasy with a little sun on it. My cat Sterling suffers greatly from it. I don't have a cat litter box. The great North Woods is his litter box. The woods buried in snow. It's up to his elbows, and every time he has to *rap all four paws get completely soaked. If there is one thing that a cat REALLY hates, it's getting wet. Especially *cold* and wet. He bounds into the house through his cat flap and throws himself down heavily on his side next to the wood stove and begins the laborious process of grooming each individual toe, sucking out the ice-water from the gray fur and straining it through his teeth. He does this with a completely disgusted feline look on his face as many times a day as nature calls him. Sterling is a big, healthy eight-pound boy, a hunter. In the summer his favoured prey are mice, in the winter the seed-feeders bring all the song birds into the yard. He can tell you the relative gastronomic merits of, say, a Titmouse VS a Red Cardinal. He is a connoisseur of songbirds. He likes to hide along the edge of the woods in that shifting band of shadows where the ferns rise up to meet the base of the mountain laurel understory. He waits patiently, very patiently, and from time to time I find a small sad whorl of abandoned feathers in the snow, and I realize that another Chickadee has found it's way into Sterling's belly. I don't blame Sterling, it is his nature. But when the clouds clear and the sun shines, Sterling has to give up hunting entirely as the whole outside world becomes a thin puddle of melt water over mushy snow. He simply can't abide that. Think four saturated paws sucking with each step through the sloppy snow. (Shudder!) He gives up and stays inside, sleeping most of the day, only going out for short periods at dawn and dusk or when his bladder demands it. And THAT is when the hunter becomes the hunted...because Caff-Pow thinks it is *endlessly* engaging to hunt Sterling through every corner of the house. Todd has very little interest in Sterling, they played when Todd was a kit, good-natured wrestling games. But Todd has his own daily routine now, stealing my Croc shoes and stuffing them beneath the yellow sofa, looking for the bread bag to add to the Croc pile, and just generally hunting for small objects made from rubber to re-organize as he sees fit. And of course, checking the kitchen island to see if any butter has been carelessly been left out for licking. Caff-Pow does not really have a set routine, he just looks for adventure wherever it can be found. And beating on a cat twice his weight is apparently just the sort of adventure he craves. He has learned all of the soft, quiet, out of the way spots that Sterling likes to nap in. He searches them out, one after another. When he discovers Sterling, the cat makes a sort of throttled growling bleat. That sound? Generally means that the four pound Caff-Pow has managed to sneak up on the sleeping cat, and has grabbed his face. Yes, his face. Sterling purely *hates* that, and detaching Caff-Pow from his face is no easy matter. Caff-Pow has big teeth, and a really hard head. So even though Sterling throws the both of them to the hardwood floor, rolls like an alligator, hisses and claws, Caff-Pow is tough to dislodge. And when Sterling does de-ferret himself, the ferret simply follows! And the whole process repeats itself from one end of the house to the other. Furniture is overturned. Things are knocked off of tables. There is hissing and growling and through it all, the eager panting hiss of the *delighted*, puff-tailed ferret. "Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!" Caff-Pow never, ever tires of this activity. Sterling tires of it immediately. Even to the point that he will sometimes launch himself outside through the cat door into the great melting North Woods, there to become bone-cold and sodden once more. He doesn't stay out long, though. Cats do not suffer well. And when he comes back in, Caff-Pow is waiting. Nose wet, whiskers lifted, ears alert, eyes shiny! He can't *wait* for another round! Lately I have taken to Emergency Containment Rules for Caff-Pow, so that the poor cat can get a break. Once Caff-Pow finds where the cat is sleeping and has started throttling him, I separate them and lock Caff-Pow into the Computer Room where he has lots of room to play, his open cage with food and water and hammies. It's not where he wants to be (imagine half an hour of clawing and door-jiggling) but it is much better then keeping him caged up to spare the cat. Eventually the weather will shift (This is New England, trust me, it will find something more inventive and perverse to do sooner rather than later) and the cat will be able to spend his days outside the way he prefers, and the hunter will no longer be the hunted. Alexandra in MA [Posted in FML 6548]