Alexandra Sargent-
Colburn is by far my favorite ferret writer. Her stories are always humorous whether they are her fictional stories or factual ones of her ferrets. I had to add this one to my blog. I laughed hysterically as I envisioned the events. I know those that have ferrets will understand......................
I've been on the road a lot over the last few days and that's unusual,I don't travel much anymore. This time of year my husband's work
calls him up north to Bar Harbor, Maine. It's a beautiful place, and all
the more beautiful this early into the tourist season. By mid-June,
the crush is brutal. My husband's boss is happy to have the two of us go
up in our camper, it doesn't interfere with my husband's work. Paying fora few nights at the Bar Harbour
KOA is a lot cheaper than paying
for my husband to stay in a hotel by himself. We bring the motorcycle,
zip around. It's a good time. We go nearly every year.My excellent niece Sarah, now nineteen (how did THAT happen?)
stayed at our house to look after the dog, the Noble Allis Chompers,
Sterling the Silver Cat, the chickens, and the ferrets. Sarah is a fine
ferret sitter, having been introduced to them as a little shaver when
I brought my first two home. She gives them lots of out time,
plays with them, and in general just uses good sense where the ferrets
are concerned.Well, She has never dealt with the likes of Caff-Pow before. There
isa reason I named him after the ultra-
caffeinated beverage on the
crimeshow NCIS. He is around ten, eleven weeks old and we all agree that
he is a "Woodland Piranha." He is a
mustelid buzz-saw, it's tiring
just to watch him run around. Leap around. Climb around. Fly. Levitate.
His daily routine makes me think of those
aeronautic daredevils of
the Roaring Twenties, the guys who would stand on airplane wings and
hold on while the plane swooped and looped over an awe-struck crowd.Caff-Pow? Energy to burn. At this stage in his life he has no guile.Everything is right in your face, unapologetic. Immediate. If
he wants it he does it. Or tries to.It was very *hot* today, up around ninety. Too hot for comfort when
you are wearing a mink coat. We called Sarah (we were driving home)
and asked for a special favor. Last year I grew a small crop of pole beans.I'd never tried them before. I set two wooden pole tripods on the
edge of the garden, and the vines obligingly climbed up the poles. Long,
dangly green beans followed. What I didn't understand was that you
have to pick them young, or they are as tough as plywood. I got a great
cropof plywood pole beans. I put them in
Ziplocs and stored them in
my deepfreeze out of Yankee guilt. Don't think we actually *ate* any.We spoke to Sarah and asked her to go get one of the icy bags of
pole beans and wrap it tightly in a T-shirt with some duct tape, and slip
it on top of the topmost shelf in the boy's cage, right below the
top most hammie. That gives the boys a cool place to sleep, they really
enjoy that on hot days. Apparently she could not find the duct tape.
Shet hought that she could just make a few knots in the T-shirt and
the one gallon
Ziplock would be secure.
Hah.
Caff-Pow had *nothing* better to do this afternoon than untie
the T-shirt, and wreak havoc. This is one of those telling events
that separates the ferret lover from the ferret admirer. The author
MarkTwain once tried to define what *experience* is. Experience is
the difference between carrying a cat upside-down by the tail for a mile,or simply imagining doing so. Only one of
these actions yields
palpable experience. Sarah lacks some fundamental
ferrret experience. There is
abig difference between duct tape, and a few knots.We got home, and I went to check on the boys. Sarah had gone out.
I could not help but notice the shredded, limp pole beans on *every*shelf in the cage, all seven plastic levels. Then there were
the shredded, limp pole beans in the three hanging
hammies. There
were shredded, limp pole beans on the bottom of the cage, in the
litterbox,just below the spout of the water bottle. There were shredded,
limp pole beans in the round fleece bed. In the hanging sack. In front
of the J-feeder. I don't think that much pole bean material had
been consumed, it had simply been masticated. Great word, that. A fancy
word for cheeeewed. Every one of those beans had been
cheeeewed. And
spat out, and left for dead.(Sigh.) It was the great Pole Bean Massacre of 2009. The horror, the horror.
Alexandra in MA