Ferret Philosophy

Mr. Serrano's Little Animal

2006-03-22T15:30:00.000-07:00

I get Google alerts for ferrets. No, that isn't quite like Onstar, in case one of my babies gets lost (would be a good idea, though). These alerts are supposed to bring me stories about ferrets that arise from just about anywhere on the internet. Well, that was what I had *thought* it would do.

For the most part, I get news stories about someone "ferreting out" one of their local dishonest politicians, or stories from a publishing company named Ferret Music, or even bizarrely industrial stories from an organization called Ferret Australia. The stories that come from Ferret Australia have nothing whatsoever to do with ferrets that I can tell. They're usually about software design and sheet metal, and I have as yet to figure out what in the heck these people actually do.

Every once in a while, I actually get an alert that's about a ferret. One of the last ones was about a vicious ferret attack in the Bronx. You might remember the story. Two little girls named Melanie and Melody were walking their pet ferrets when one of them went stark-raving mad and attacked poor Jon-Luc. Jon-Luc's mother, Wanda, reported that "the girls harbored the 'wild' and 'ferocious' animals, which are 'prone to vicious, unpredictable attacks on humans, particularly young children and infants.'" Ferrets are illegal in New York City. Naming your obviously defenseless son "Jon-Luc" is not, apparently. I would suggest martial arts to help improve this delicate child's confidence.

Today I had gotten another Goggle alert about a New York City man who was beaten into critical condition because he attempted to regain his ferret from some thugs. Now, I had previously gotten three alerts to this story, but this one came from Channel 47-KGPE, Fresno, California. The previous alerts had directed me to much better versions of the story, mostly from the east coast. I thought to myself that maybe the good people of Fresno might be interested in a man who was beaten into critical condition over a ferret. I know that it had sparked my interest. So I go to the Channel 47 web site and take a look at the other headlines of the day - "Lawsuit Says SpongeBob Shirt Burned Boy," "Obese Man Loses 81 Pounds in One Day," "Chicken Nugget Creator Dead at 84." In my mind, I began to question the seriousness of the good people of Fresno's journalistic integrity. I do have to admit, however, that the stories were hilarious, way funnier than MSNBC. Against my better judgment, I would probably be coming back to this site just to read the freak show of headlines.

I will relate my reason for mentioning the Fresno news site in just a moment, but I want to expand on the seriousness of the original story.

The best version of the story is found in the New York Times. Joe Serrano, an elderly Mexican immigrant, was a superintendent of a building located on 572 West 173rd Street in Washington Heights, New York City. He was emptying out the apartment of a tenant who had died and found a ferret named Mico. The tenant had been dead for awhile, and Mico was starving. Being the kind soul that he was, Mr. Serrano put Mico in a cage, gave him some food, and gave him a home in the boiler room located in the basement of the building. Mr. Serrano lived in a tiny apartment next to the boiler room, no more than a few feet wide and fifteen feet long. Mico also shared the boiler room with a pit bull named Max.

Mr. Serrano often took to the streets of New York with Mico on his shoulder, and many people had reported seeing him do this. One day, however, Mico came up missing from the boiler room. Mr. Serrano went looking for his ferret, spotted some young men who were carrying Mico, asked them for his ferret back, and was promptly pounded into a bloody pulp. Mr. Serrano wobbled to his feet, saying, "My animal, my little animal." Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos, Sr. Serrano.

Oddly enough, the next section of the story states that "owning ferrets in New York is illegal, and is punishable by a fine of between $200 and $2,000." Nowhere in the article does it mention the illegality of beating a man to a pulp and sending him to the hospital in critical condition with severe head trauma. Mr. Serrano might have suffered brain damage, possibly impairing his ability to speak and the use one of his arms. From what I've read, Mico has not been recovered. The New York Times accompanied the story with a stock photo of a ferret. There was no photo of Mr. Serrano, however. He probably wasn't cute enough.

Now, there's a reason I've mentioned Channel 47's website story. The story had been on a few other independent internet news sites as well, and each one has accompanied their story with a stock photo of a ferret. All very cute ferrets, but none of them the real Mico. That's understandable. I imagine any dashing news photographer might have been dissuaded from snapping Mico's photo by New York City's $2000 fine. But Channel 47's accompanying stock photo was a bit different. It was of a smart-looking sable ferret walking through the grass. Being the curious fellow that I am, I right-clicked on the photo and hit "properties" so that I could see the URL. I wanted to see if this photo might be one of the actual Mico. No such luck. This was the URL:

http://content.clearchannel.com/Photos/animals/Mammals/Rodent/ferret_GI.jpg

Naturally, I first looked at the end of the URL, hoping to see Mico's name, but what I saw was "Ferret_GI.jpg." Was this a stock photo of a military ferret? Had this ferret recently had general intestinal surgery? I didn't have a clue. I started looking at the rest of the URL, however, and came to the word "Rodent." Rodent? I looked at the picture again, thinking I might spot some furry little mouse in the grass, but the only mammal I could spot was the military ferret. No rodents anywhere. Had this reputable news agency mistaken a ferret for a rodent? One would think that any news agency would be up on that kind of thing, especially one involved with the state of California. Hadn't California done all kinds of research and found out that domestic mustelids were much more dangerous to it's ecology than other fissipeds? How could they not know that a ferret was not a rodent? While I was glad that they had gotten "Mammal" right, I was disappointed in the good people of Fresno for letting this one slide.

As a matter of fact, I have been increasingly disappointed in the ignorance of many of the rule-makers and legislators of both the states of New York and California. How can legislators rule on the legality of an animal when they don't even know what the animal is? Do they confuse domestic mustelids with other, more endangered mustelids? Are they really trying to protect the more endangered mustelids from the domestic ones? I'm pretty sure that if my Bubbles somehow got loose in the forests of California, that the first male black-footed ferret that came her way would take a sniff at her spayed and descented behind and walk away. I am almost entirely sure that he would want to find a much hotter black-footed female to play with, unless of course, he didn't want children and had a thing for blonds. Then, I guess, he would be no different than most Californian males. (I mean you no offense, my dear Bubbles. California males, you're on your own.)

And what in the hell about New York City? Are there businesses of roving black-footed ferrets wandering around Ground Zero that need protected? I've been to New York City a couple of times, and never remembered seeing very much wildlife there at all. I've seen the *remnants* of wildlife in Chinatown restaurants, but that is about the extent of it. I just don't get it. Why are ferrets illegal in New York City? Did they spin a big wheel and ferrets came up? Was that when they decided to make ferrets illegal? Were feral mustelids invading the Department of Health and the Mayor's office? Did Juliani have his wife on hold while talking to his girlfriend, when a mustelid meandered into his office? Did he embarrass himself by jumping up on his desk and screaming like a little girl? I'm just trying to understand here, people. I really don't get it.

How is it that Mr. Serrano was willing to defend his "little animal" with his life, but the people that have forced the ownership of ferrets underground know little or nothing about the animal that they are trying to protect Mr. Serrano from? Apparently, the Department of Health didn't mind Mr. Serrano living right next to the boiler room in a miniscule apartment. That was perfectly fine with them.

Why is it that a woman in the Bronx has to scream bloody murder when a ferret on a leash bites her son? If she's looking to protect her son from "wild and ferocious animals, which are prone to vicious, unpredictable attacks on humans," shouldn't she be considering the more dangerous fissipeds, namely cats and dogs? Or was she just looking to make a buck? New York, New York, big city of dreams...

I don't get it, California and New York City (and any other place in the United States which feels a need to make ferrets illegal). What are you basing your laws on? I know, with the Patriot Act and illegal wire-tapping, the legality of ferrets hardly seems to be an issue. But maybe that's the problem. We are up to our eyed-teeth in ignorant and bloated laws. Each and every day, the legislators just can't wait to make more of them. Lawyers have to be paid. Big Business has to be protected. Ferrets are definitely not one of their priorities, unless of course someone is trying to make them legal.

Mr. Serrano didn't care about any of these laws. He freely rode Mico on his shoulder while he took to the streets of New York City. Maybe it was because he was a Mexican immigrant that he had no knowledge of the laws of New York City. Maybe he unknowingly gave Mayor Juliani and the Department of Health the middle finger by showing off his "little animal." Good for him. But then, maybe not so good for him. Because his "little animal" had been forced underground, quite possibly the thugs who beat him to a pulp and stole Mico felt a little more emboldened to do so.

I'm just trying to understand. In a country where educated people sometimes don't even know how to classify ferrets, why do we insist on keeping these ignorant and arbitrary laws? Is there any scientific, pragmatic reason to do so? If there is one, I'd sure like to hear it.

Mi corazón sale a usted, Sr. Serrano. There was no reason for this to have ever happened. Puede usted ser curado de su estupidez.

Links to the story:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/18/nyregion/18ferret.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
http://www.upi.com/NewsTrack/view.php?StoryID=20060318-103030-3147r
http://www.cbs47.tv/news/weird_news/story.aspx?content_id=F9783ECB-29D6-4FB0-BDB8-A67F5B11FBF7

Gangland Ferrets

2006-02-24T15:13:00.000-07:00

I am working crazy hours lately. At least, they would be crazy to most people. The last few months I have transferred to working on the graveyard shift at my job. And no, I don't work in a graveyard.

The hours I work are not so odd - it's the hours I sleep. You name a five to six hour period, and you would have caught me sleeping during that time sometime over the last few months. To save myself some confusion, I just wish everybody a good morning no matter what time of the day it is. People have learned to accept it. They should, damnit. If I've just eaten eggs and toast and drank my tea, as far as I'm concerned, it's morning.

Now that I've demonstrated the level of my lucidity, it won't be so hard to accept this last bit of news that I read a bit ago. You can blame it's insanity on me. As far as you know, I'm making this up. I'm not, but go ahead, keep nodding and humor me.

I get up in the "morning" (I don't remember when morning was that day, maybe 4pm or so) and I browse through my RSS feeds. I come across this story from the New York Post. "PET-PEEVED MA SUES OVER 'FERRET ATTACK." I am intrigued, so I read further...

Apparently, two little girls were walking their pet ferrets on Zerega Avenue in the Bronx. Well, there's your first problem. Ferrets are illegal in New York City. These were apparently gangster ferrets of some kind, maybe even "cleaners." I don't know. I have to make *something* up for this to appear lucid, and "cleaner ferrets" sound somewhat plausible. Back to the story.

Wanda Luciano says the two girls, named Melanie and Melody, were walking their pet ferrets when one of the cleaner ferrets jumped out and tried to hit her son, Jon-Luc. Melanie, Melody, and Jon-Luc, huh? You can see where there'd be trouble. Gangland names, straight across the board. I would be willing to bet that the girls were wearing anti-mad dog sunglasses.

Wanda charged that "the girls harbored the 'wild' and 'ferocious' animals, which are 'prone to vicious, unpredictable attacks on humans, particularly young children and infants.'" Right in the middle of reading this important alert, my tea kettle goes off. I innocently walk to the kitchen when, out of nowhere, Shelby attacks me! She chases my feet, nipping the tops of them unmercifully. Shelby might as well have said, "Dance, hombre," because that's what I was doing.

I do my own version of the cumbia while I make my tea, occasionally leaving the tea area to run around the kitchen in a circle. The viscious attack continues for about 6 minutes - there was blood, cream, and sugar everywhere! There probably wouldn't have been any blood, except I stubbed my ingrown toenail pretty good. Between my yelling and Shelby's dooking, I'm surprised someone didn't call the cops. Eventually, I make it back to my computer desk with my tea, and Shelby eventually decides to "clean" Jasper. Thank goodness. Not for Jasper, but for myself.

I got back to my computer desk and continue the story, taking a few sips of tea. "Board of Health bans ferrets in 1999" blah blah blah... "City Council votes to overturn ban" hmm... "Giuliani vetoes measure" blah blah blah... "2002, Supreme Court upholds health law." I think to myself that's good, we need a healthy Supreme Court, but then I read further... "Since ban in effect, 67 ferret bites reported." The ferrets bit the Supreme Court? Were these activist ferrets? Did the ferrets retain their constitutional rights and refuse their rabies shots? I don't understand...

I take a few more sips of my tea. The last thing I read in the story is that "attempts to reach the Baez girls (Melanie and Melody - just viscious, I tell you) and their mom, Nivia Loubriel Baez, also named as a defendant, were unsuccessful." I'm guessing that's probably because they were still laughing. You know how owners of gangland ferrets are - life is just a joke.

I decide the world has been crazy enough for one day. Or maybe it's me. Either way, I need a nap. I go back to my bedroom and find Shelby sprawled out on top of my comforter. I carefully slide her over without waking her. I didn't want to make her mad, after all. I slip under the comforter and immediately she stretches and slides up next to me. She lets out one big yawn, eyes half-closed, then she drifts back off to sleep. She looks so angelic, one would never figure her for a cleaner ferret. I attempt to sleep myself, because it's bedtime somewhere, but I just can't. No one can sleep with one eye open, I don't care what they say.

Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

2005-12-23T19:14:00.000-07:00

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a person was stirring, especially my spouse;
The ornaments were hung on the tree with great care,
In hope that no ferrets would ever be there.

The ferrets were snoozing, all snug in their beds,
Thoughts of wry mischief danced in their heads.
My wife in her t-shirt, and I in my shorts,
Had just settled down after having a snort.

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the kitchen I flew like a flash,
Tripped over the water bowl and into the trash…

Alone on the floor, with cold and wet shorts,
I thought to myself, "I'm too old for these sports,"
When whom did I spot? Not that fellow named Claus -
But eight tiny demons with thirty-two paws.

They scampered and scurried, and scattered so quick,
I knew in a moment they were up to their tricks.
More rapid than badgers, they started this game,
And I whistled and shouted and called them by name;

"Hey Shelby! Hey Chase! Hey Jasper! Hey Scritch!"
"How'd they get out?" I thought, "Son of a !#*&!"
They ran from the kitchen and tore off down the hall,
Then climbed on the sofa and bounced off the wall.

They vanished like elves - I thought, "Where could they be?"
When I noticed a rustling just under the tree.
The tree lights were blinking as I turned around,
And up through the middle went Chase with a bound!

I reached in my hand as Chase climbed to the top,
One by one, I heard ornaments drop.
In the center of the tree climbed my bad little girl,
And I thought to myself, "She must be part squirrel!"

I reached in again, but I didn't get far,
And covered in tinsel, Chase went for the star!
My arm became tangled in the lights of the tree,
A hook from an ornament got caught on my knee!

I tripped on a present, and I started to fall,
And to the ferrets below, I yelled, "Dash away all!"
With ornaments falling, to the tree I was bound,
And the lights shorted out as we fell to the ground…

I lay in the tree, which I wore like a wreath;
Chase sat on my chest, with the star in her teeth!
With a twinkle in her eye, she looked like an elf,
And I laughed when I saw her, in spite of myself.

The ferrets gathered 'round, and gave me wet kisses,
To warn me that I had awakened the missus.
I untangled myself, and I put them to bed
Then I noticed my wife, who was shaking her head.

And laying a finger upside of my nose,
I gave her a nod, and said, "You don't want to know."
But I heard her exclaim as she turned out the light…

"…What the hell was that all about?"

------------------

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Thanks Are Not What You Think

2005-12-16T18:48:00.000-07:00

Laura, I think you are wrong about this. Everyone is selfish. Everything we do is really in one way or another for ourselves. Even your post is evidence of this. You write, with great detail and passion, to explain the virtues of selflessness. It is a Zen riddle, of sorts ;) And even though what I say might sound initially unkind, I am not faulting you. It is how we all are. We all want to be acknowledged.

When we do something nice for someone, we also do it for ourselves. We do it so we can think of ourselves as nice people. It is not such a far stretch as to want others to think of us as nice people as well. It is a basic human need.

We have all, at one time or another, done something nice for someone, making sure that they never knew who did this nice thing for them. We go through great pains not to be discovered, all because our joy in doing this thing would be diminished by their knowledge of our doing it. In essence, we are doing it as much for ourselves as for the person on the receiving end of our good deed, maybe even more so. It is not so easily explained by the rigid definition of the word "altruism".

I am a man. I open doors for people all the time. I don't know why I do. I guess it's because I'm a man and I think I'm supposed to, although women do it too. Sometimes the person I open the door for will smile and say thanks, and sometimes they won't. Sometimes they will sneer at me, as if I'd somehow insulted them or done something wrong. I've never really delighted in this reaction, but I've understood it. People have their pride. But every once in a while I will hold the door open for someone and they will brush past me as if I were the Ghost of Christmas Past. That's probably the worst of all door-opening experiences - that feeling of invisibility.

I have to admit - each time I open a door for someone I am looking for something; a smile on their face, or at the very least, a nod of the head towards my pocket-sized kindness. The measure of my "altruism" is not so much defined by my invisibility as by the fact that I keep on opening doors, smile or not, and that one snarling person does not make me want to slam the door on the next one. My "selflessness" has more to do about my persistence of trying to do the right thing than my invisibility.

Jaws loves it when I treat him with pieces of cooked meat, especially steak. He can smell it cooking a mile away, and always comes trotting into the kitchen to look up at me, begging for a piece. He is my meatasaurus. Even when I'm not cooking something, he feels my footsteps in the kitchen and follows me there, just in case. He stands at my feet, patiently waiting. Besides being my meatasaurus, Jaws is my handicapped boy. He has a bit of trouble looking up but he manages it, even though he's not exactly sure where up is most times. Before I sit down to eat, I cut off a few small pieces of my steak and put them under some cold water to cool them and rinse off the salt and pepper. I reach down and hold the piece of steak next to his face, his nose weaving back and forth until his olfactory radar picks it up and guides it to his mouth. Most times, he takes it and wobbles off to eat in solitude, far from the prying noses of the other ferrets.

He's never left me a thankyou note or a tip, mind you. But even in his shaky and soundless world, he always manages to find me and look up at me. He reminds me that I am not invisible to him. It is a simple thanks, one that I understand, unspoken between he and I. It is all I could ask for.

Tortoises, Frogs, and Ferrets

2005-11-15T00:15:00.000-07:00

I was sleeping. I haven't been taking such good care of myself, lately. I am a diabetic, and my sugar has been up. Well, who am I kidding? It's always up. I haven't taken much control over it. I take my meds and I make my excuses, and as I long as I feel halfway decent it's a good day. Not this evening, however. I ate a big breakfast for dinner and took my meds late. Hey, it's my day off. These are the bits of stupidity I will be relaying to my dialysis technician, eventually. But no matter. I was in a deep, high-sugar slumber, waiting for my meds to kick in. Usually I wake up feeling better, but not tonight.

I am awakened by my wife calling my name. She is crying and holding one of our guys. My mind is fuzzy and still asleep, and I'm trying to put everything together. I don't know if she tells me or if I see him, but I realize that she's holding Dusty. She tells me that Dusty had come up to her and was having some problems breathing. She picked him up, trying to soothe him, and then he unexpectedly took his last breath. He was just gone.

She tells me this, still in shock, as she holds Dusty in her arms, an exaggerated frown covering her face as she tries not to cry out loud. She tells me that he's still warm and she hands him to me, a gift of sorts that both she and I understand. I hold him in my arms next to my chest. It would be easy to imagine that he was still alive. He is still warm and soft. But this is not the phony "sleeping dead ferret" act, and I will not shake him awake and chastise him for scaring the bejesus out of me. He will not look at me through blurred eyes and yawn, wondering what the fuss is all about. It will be just me who is left to wonder. I look into his face and still see his comical buck-toothed fangs, but they are mismatched with his lifeless eyes. It is real and not real. My mind is having trouble processing things.

This is our second adrenal ferret to pass in the last twenty days with hardly any warning. Smokey had passed on the twenty-fourth of last month from complications of this damned disease. His enlarged prostate had swelled his urethra shut and he had stopped peeing. At first, my wife thought he had a blockage and she was watching over him, but somehow we failed to notice that he had stopped peeing. We were looking for the wrong thing. We thought Smokey would be alright until we could get him into the doc's the next morning. Our emergency docs were all at a funeral that morning, however, and we could not get him in until that afternoon. When we finally got him to the docs, it was too late. His kidneys had started swelling and he was in renal failure. They tried to catheterize him, even tried to aspirate his bladder with a needle, but it wasn't working. We left him at the doc's hoping for the best, but later got the call that no one ever wants to get, asking us what we wanted to do. Even though it was phrased as a choice, we did the only thing we could do. We let him go.

I am trying to figure out what's been going on here. Both Smokey and Dusty were both between four and five years old, both ferrets of the tattooed-ear clan, both adrenal; I don't get it. I am angry at myself at first, for not knowing enough to help my guys, for missing things I feel I should have caught, but my frustration slowly evolves into something else, something for which I can find no outlet…

I take a walk. I bring my mp3 player with me so I can drown out the city of Albuquerque. I do not want to talk to people, do not want to hear panhandlers ask me for spare change, do not want to feel obligated to say "hello" to anyone, good, bad, or indifferent. I am a lunatic in no state of mind for even the slightest conversation. I fumble with the buttons on my player, and I drown out the city with "Frogtoise" by Schneider TM:

"Sometimes I dream of nothing
next morning, it's even worse
sometimes I wake up sweating
feels like I've just given birth
sometimes I don't wake up at all..

I had a dream
I cut a frog in half, a turtle too
to plant the top of the tortoise on
The poor frog's base

I'd love to meet you out there
to pet your heart and soul
discover all your beauty
and let the good vibes flow
but I've been called by a certain duty, cause in my dream…

I cut a frog in half, a turtle too
to plant the top of the tortoise on
the poor frog's base
Now what you think?
How it looked at me, the one to blame
I felt ashamed."

I walk faster, crying and coughing. It is such a poignant song. I've thought of it often during these last twenty days. I've been wondering why our ferrets contract these horrible diseases. Is it genetics? Sure, it's genetics - why not? I have no other answers; no real ones, anyways. I blame genetics and Marshall Farms, and I focus my anger at them for a bit. Marshall Farms - putting together ferrets wrong since 1939. I have not had any ferret from Marshall's live past the age of six. Smokey and Dusty were only four and five. It is hard not to blame them. I think to myself that maybe I could put Marshall's out of business, along with the other ferret farms, and I could stop this, but my anger burns itself out as I walk myself into a tired reasonability.

The truth is that I don't know whose fault it is. I don't know with whom I should be angry. Somehow, we're putting tortoises on top of frogs and it's coming out all wrong. I cannot stop my ferrets from eventually losing their hair and biting their cage mate's ears. I cannot stop them from stumbling, drooling, and staring out into space. If I could crunch the numbers and use microscopes to figure it all out I would, but even scientists haven't been able to figure it out - how can I expect to? I should not have to be a scientist. I should not have to be a ferret health expert to give my ferrets a normal lifespan, but I almost have to be. Too many ferrets are afflicted with these horrific diseases, and if I don't attempt to learn things I cannot ease their suffering. It is what I have to do.

I understand when Schneider TM talks about not waking up at all. For those of us who keep ferrets, these diseases are a bad dream from which we cannot awaken. All I know is that it is me and my kind who are to blame for this. We are the ones who insist upon putting tortoises on top of frogs. We mass produce ferrets, alter them, and then put them on airplanes before they are even weaned. We mix and match ferrets for colors and patterns, thinking little of the consequences of our whims. And even though I know that I am not personally responsible, I am the one who looks into my ferret's eyes when they are sick and dying, and I feel ashamed for me and my kind.

I will walk tonight. I will drown out the city with my music, my anger, and my sadness. In the morning, my wife and I will take Dusty - way too soon - up to Josie's mountain to say goodbye. I know that somewhere out there, there must be a reason for all of this. Please, somebody, tell me that there is a reason out there. I want this bad dream, to which I've awoken, to make sense.

The Courage of Smokers

2005-10-15T17:17:00.000-06:00

My original post, rejected the first time around for reasons that I understand:

"I only have one thing to say about smoking and pet ownership, well... maybe two:

First off, I don't smoke, so I have had it fairly easy... that is, if you don't consider the fact that I have never taken advantage of that blessed drug called nicotine. Some of you went right ahead and started early, just so you would have that advantage when it came time to deal with the complexities of life. Bully. I applaud your insight, cancer be damned.

But let's not get into any kind of debate about whether or not your smoking is harmless to your pets. There is not one aspect of smoking that benefits your ferrets. If you choose to smoke, then you choose to smoke. Let's leave it at that. I get so weary of these fabricated arguments meant to justify destructive behaviors. It's much like arguing that it's a good thing to beat yourself with a rubber hose. Please. Maintain your dignity. Beat yourself silently.

I will reiterate; if you choose to smoke, then you choose to smoke. No one is going to come to your house and arrest you, nor will anyone be going door to door, forcefully installing smoke alarms and video cameras, so you are safe. Smoking is perfectly legal. Luckily, so is oncology and respiratory therapy.

And while I don't think smoking is a good idea, I applaud your courage when it comes to ingesting nicotine and the multitude of chemicals you inhale on a daily basis. When the time comes, chemotherapy will seem like a piece of cake. My hat is off."

And my current post, which had a softer viewpoint than I would like to have given. I still managed to maintain a few barbs:

"My original post had some problems. It had too much barbed-wire wrapped around it, and BIG couldn't get it open. I have since removed the barbed-wire. I can probably use it in the next war.

I will simply ask the smokers to consider this:

If you feel the need or the compulsion to smoke, please consider quitting. We often do for our animals what we would not do for ourselves. I don't know the manner, location, or frequency of your smoking, so I cannot say with any kind of intelligence whether or not it is good or bad for your ferrets. But one million scientists and I do know that it IS bad for you. Just this once, consider quitting for yourself.

Stick around awhile. It will be very hard to enjoy your ferrets if you're stuck in a hospital room, behind a respirator - or worse. Today, somewhere in the world, a ferret is going to a shelter because it's owner died or became incapacitated. We will all eventually become incapacitated and die. Let's try not to hurry that along, OK?

Personally, I hope that I die of the natural causes brought about by thinking continually about sex. For the moment, I am in no danger. I am doing algebra homework, wracking my brain trying to figure out imaginary numbers. But if you ladies keep posting about your thongs... well, I can't guarantee how long I'll be around.

I mean, not that I mind or anything, but think about the welfare of my ferrets...

ps. You can read my original post on my blog, if you so choose - but if you do, beware of barbed-wire."

The Dangers of Rational Expressions

2005-09-28T11:53:00.000-06:00

I have had enough of this. I am doing my homework, which involves solving rational expressions, and let me tell you - there is nothing rational about it. I have been cooped up in my room listening to CNN and doing math for the last two hours, all in the comfort of my boxers. I've done five whole problems so far. I am a genius to the negative second power.

I've already let two cups of tea go cold. I rationally decide that I need two hot cups, if I am to get anything done this evening. While it makes no real sense, logically, I feel somewhat rational about it. Hardee har har. Alright, it's a bad pun. Making tea won't help me do my homework, but it will give me a ten-minute break. Good enough. I go to the kitchen and start the water boiling. Dusty and Jaws meet me in the kitchen and follow me around. I have about five minutes to kill. I decide I'll use the bathroom, since I'll probably be in siege with my homework for the next two hours.

I head for the bathroom, and Dusty follows me in. Jaws, the smart one, heads elsewhere. One or more ferrets usually notice that I'm heading for the bathroom. It's no use to try to keep them out. I have tried to keep them out, but it's like being the goalie in a game of ferret soccer. They have the better team. If you manage to keep them out, they scratch on the door the entire time you're in there, just to be annoying. It's easier to leave the door open. It is only my wife and I, after all. No need to be modest.

I drop my boxers and take a seat. I have not sat down for twenty seconds, when Dusty starts crawling through my boxers. Dusty always takes the opportunity to use my boxers as some sort of portable hammock. He and the others have done this so long that it doesn't even faze me. I used to shoo them away, and even pull my boxers to my knees, but to no avail. I just let them have at it. It's much like the bathroom door situation. They know that eventually I'll give up.

I have taken my math book into the bathroom with me. Maybe I can figure this stuff out. I immerse myself in intermediate algebra. I feel tugging and jostling sensations around my ankles as Dusty makes himself comfortable in my boxers, but I pay no mind. I am in deep concentration. Eventually the jostling stops. I start to reach a Zen-like algebraic trance, multiplying polynomials by factors of one in my head to cancel out the fractions, thereby simplifying the equation. Eighteen, huh? So that's how you do it. Take out the (x + 2)'s and solve for x. Simple. Maybe I should do my homework in here. Almost attaining mathematical Zen mastery, I attempt an even harder problem…

Suddenly, the teakettle sounds off. The bathroom is only a few feet away from the kitchen, and the loudness of the whistle is startling! This is where it all falls apart. Previously distracted by algebraic immersion, my reflexes cause me to spring up and simultaneously flush the toilet, still holding onto my math book. It is an amazing display of coordination. As I spring up, my boxers tighten between my ankles. Dusty is still comfortably curled up inside of them. What was once a comfortable hammock has now become a slingshot. Dusty flips around and flies six inches into the air, coming down to bounce off my boxers as though they were a miniature trampoline. He lands on the plush bathroom rug, wide-eyed and stunned, but unhurt.

I stumble in a panic, trying to figure out where Dusty has landed so I can step around him, but I lose my balance. I fall towards the sink, which is on my right, forcing me to use my right hand to break the fall. Unfortunately, my right hand is also the one holding my math book. I am forced to drop it. I helplessly watch as my math book bounces off the ledge of the sink and falls directly into the toilet. Horrors! I instantaneously reach to grab my book from the swirling water, but doing so puts me into the direct path of the resulting splash. Dusty and I are now doused with semi-polluted toilet water! Mortified, I regain my balance and pluck my book from the toilet bowl. I am thankful that as a child I was taught to flush each and every time. Toilet water drips off my eyebrows and chin. My boxers, still around my ankles, are now soaked in spots. Dusty is no happy camper, himself. He dries himself off by scooting on the bathroom rug.

I don't know why it comes to me, but I realize that I can no longer hear the teakettle. Well, that was worth it. I pull up my boxers and head towards the kitchen. There is nothing worse than cold, wet boxers. In the melee, my wife has calmly fixed my tea. She looks at me as I come into the kitchen; my hair and face are still wet, and I am carrying a soggy math book. She doesn't say a word. I follow the wisdom of her silence. Dusty follows me into the kitchen. The kitchen is hardly the place we should be in our unsterilized condition. After partially drying my math book with some paper towels, I grab Dusty and we head to the shower.

First, I take the soiled bathroom rug and throw it into the hamper. I then use a dirty towel to dry the floor. Dusty and I take a lukewarm shower. With soap. Anti-bacterial soap. Dusty complains. Hey, you little jackball, I didn't tell you to sleep there. Just stop squiggling, would you? OK, hang on, already… you're almost done. I put Dusty in a towel and roll him around in it. I take him out of the towel and put him on the floor. He shivers a bit, shakes himself, then scampers off indignantly as if this was all MY fault.

I bring my teapot back to my room. My homework is still sitting on the table, half done. That's how it's going to stay, too. I have irrational expressions I could make about rational expressions, but I refrain. When I go to school tomorrow, I am going to tell my teacher that the ferrets ate my homework. If he asks me about my math book, I'll tell him that they ate that, too. I will offer no further explanation. I wouldn't know how.

I put on fresh boxers and sit down to watch New Orleans on CNN. They are doing a segment on Plaquemines Parish. Some poor gentleman is showing CNN his home, still flooded after all this time. He goes from room to room, wading through the disgusting water to give the reporter a tour of what used to be his home. I pour myself a cup of hot tea and raise it up to him in an impromptu toast. Here's to you, sir. I don't know anything about hurricanes or failed levees, but I do know a bit about mishaps with contaminated water. Cheers.

Ferrets of the Tattooed-Ear Clan

2005-09-25T14:21:00.000-06:00

I am sitting at my computer. It is late, as usual, and my mind is wandering. I have made myself a pot of tea and a sandwich for my late-night nourishment. I have been reading all the hoopla about ferret shows and breeder ferrets and the like. I am tired, and in between these readings, I take numerous micro-naps. It’s not that what I’m reading is boring - it’s just that I have this propensity to sit at my computer until four am. I work numerous hours, and by god, I’m not going to let sleep infringe on my free time. I read some, and then I drift off…

I dream about show ferrets in competition, all fluffed out and squeaky-clean, their heads lifted high. I have only seen dog shows, so forgive me if my mind takes some liberties. Trotted around on leashes before the judges, the ferret contestants prance like nobility, their owners behind them, discreetly using tissues to clean up any "accidents." The whole idea of it all seems so regal and Olympian. There are ferrets of all colors and combinations for everyone to “ooh” and “aah” about. Flashes from digital cameras go off, reflecting off medals hung from blue ribbons. I sink deeper into my dream, images of perfect ferrets changing like a slideshow in my mind, when I am awakened by a pawing at my leg…

It is Dusty. He is standing on his back legs, leaning on my leg to let me know that he’s there and available, in case I didn’t want all my sandwich. It is hard for him to stand like this, but he is on a mission. My eyes start to focus, and I look down and take a closer look at Dusty. He has recently had adrenal and insulinoma surgery, and boy - is he a mess. His hair is all thinned-out and scraggly, and to make matters worse, his belly is shaved, exposing a three-inch surgical incision. He is the Frankenstein of ferrets. Dusty is of the tattooed-ear clan, definitely not show ferret material. As a kit, he was not quite a silver mitt, but a hybrid of white and grey, hence the name “Dusty.” Now, in middle-age and disrepair, he looks like he permanently needs a bath.

Frankenferret paws my leg again, because he is still worried that my sandwich is going to waste. I show him my empty hand, and he leaves in a huff. I watch him walk away. His belly is extended and misshapen because of his diseases, and his gait is awkward. It doesn’t stop him, however. He is on a mission. Only temporarily discouraged, he heads off to check on the status of the dog food bowl. I am too tired to care. I drift off back to sleep in my computer chair…

I dream that Dusty is in the ring at a ferret show, standing there in bewilderment. People are laughing and throwing popcorn at him as he waddles around the ring, doing his best to attempt a trot. Ferret judges disapprovingly shake their heads at him and head towards more appropriate prospects. It is then that I realize that I am in my own dream. I make an attempt to comfort Dusty, but it is of no use. He and I slink back home in total humiliation, but not before he grabs a kernel of popcorn to go. The audience boos as we exit the stadium...

Sid saves me from my imagined humiliation, awakening me by pawing at my other leg. I cough a bit, choking on my drool. I take a sip of tea. He looks up at me sideways, head tilted. His head is always tilted. He survived a serious bacterial infection in his ear, but it left him with a permanent head-tilt. I pick Sid up. All he wants is attention. He has no interest in my sandwich. Sometimes I think all he wants is understanding. I do my best to give it to him.

Sid has had a hard life. Banished from his first home for killing a hamster, we took him in, only to have our resident ferrets beat the crap out of him on a daily basis. This went on until the day he got sick. Somehow, his sickness transformed him. No longer did the resident ferrets pick on him at their leisure. He self-learned some kind of martial art for ferrets, where he uses his head tilt as an advantage to roll underneath his opponent. Even if his victim is on the wrong side, he circles around to his advantage, and slides underneath them. It is amazing to watch. The resident ferrets, who used to beat the crap out of him on a daily basis, now cringe in fear when they see him coming. This might be a somewhat positive thing for Sid, except for one thing; whether he is getting his butt kicked or kicking butt himself, he is almost always alone.

Sometimes Sid wants to play like any normal ferret. He will go up to give one of the other ferrets a playful nudge, but instead of nudging him back, they end up fleeing in terror, their tails poofed. He will cock his head as only he can, and give them a quizzical look before he gives chase. He does not understand why they won’t play with him. I can always tell when Sid catches one of them, because I’ll hear them screaming for their life. I will get out of my chair and “rescue” them, but usually the only damage done is some slobbered-on fur. I try to tell Sid, “Hey, you murderous schizoid, if you wouldn’t try to kill them first thing in the morning, they might want to play with you in the afternoon.” He cocks his head and looks up at me sideways, trying to understand, but he just can’t. He then wanders off, either to start another homicidal rampage, or to take a nap.

Except for his head tilt and his temperament, Sid is a perfect ferret. He is a nice weight and build, and his coat is a beautiful white and silver. His face is that of a cherub amongst ferrets. You have to look closely to see the horns. If not for his impairment, I would put him up against any show ferret. I think about Sid and his horns as I drift back to sleep…

Sid and I are transformed into the center of an important ferret competition. The lights are bright. It is at the end of the competition, and tension is in the air as the ferrets and their owners wait for the announcement of “best of show.” There are exotic ferrets of all kinds, some with long wavy hair, and some with muscular builds like tiny otters. Out of all the fanciful ferrets at the show, however, none has the face of my cherub. Sid poses on his stand, proud nose in the air. I give him a final brushing, but no need - he is already perfect.

The judges walk to the microphone stand and the lights go down. Spotlights start swirling, waiting for the judges to make their announcement so they can shine on the winner. Sid tilts his head and shifts his front feet, posing for the audience. He is a confident little ferret, and without shame he knows that he is about to be awarded the medal for “best of show.” Digital cameras flash, and the crowd is abuzz. One of the judges grabs the microphone.

“The winner of third place in the best of show division goes to…” The crowd quiets, but there is murmuring in the audience. All the ferrets in the competition are nervous, hoping that their name is not called for this award. Suddenly, the spotlight shines on Ollie. “Third place in the best of show division goes to Ollie, the wavy-haired cinnamon.” The crowd claps politely, but Ollie and his owner show obvious disappointment. I think I see Ollie softly crying, his owner dabbing tears from his eyes with a tissue. The show continues.

“The winner of second place in the best of show division is awarded to…” Sid is not even paying attention. He knows he has this all wrapped up. He continues to pose for the audience, his eyes closed, a cherubic smile on his face. All of a sudden the spotlight shines on Sid. The judges have just awarded Sid second place in “best of show!” Sid is not happy. His eyes, no longer closed and relaxed, are now little slits. He does a slow burn as the show continues. No longer posing, he focuses intently on the announcement of the winner.

The spotlight swirls around and focuses on the winning ferret. “The winner of best of show, for the year two-thousand and five, goes to… Prince Buster the second!” The crowd claps and whistles, and Prince Buster takes a well-deserved bow. I am mildly disappointed that my little cherub has only taken second place, but disappointment is the last thing I see in Sid’s face. His face has quite another look - the look of a ninja assassin.

Calmly, Sid jumps down off his podium and heads over to Prince Buster, as if to congratulate him. But I know better. I start to yell at Sid, “No, you little schizoid, don’t do it!” But it is too late. I hear screaming and crying coming from their direction. Sid is underneath Prince Buster, in a sort of hammer-lock, biting down on his ear. Buster is screaming for all he’s worth, his tail poofed. With each scream, Sid bites down a bit harder on the new “best of show.” Sid is not good with rejection, as one might gather. No blood is drawn, thankfully. My defense will be easier.

Animal Control is called, and we are escorted off the property. I pay a small bond, and Sid is released to my custody. Later that week, I am served with papers. Prince Buster’s owners are indeed suing. They want me to pay to have Buster professionally un-slobbered. Sid and I end up in Ferret Court (a show on Animal Planet – who knew?). Sid manages to hide his horns, looking quite the cherub. I start to argue my slobber defense…

I am awakened with a jolt. I hear whining and crying coming from the kitchen. It is almost four in the morning, and the house is dark. I walk quickly to see what the problem is, although I already know. I turn on the light. Sid has gotten hold of Shelby, and both their tails are poofed. What’s with all the tail-poofing? Can’t you two monkeys just get along? Unpoof yourselves, already! I separate them, picking up Shelby to comfort her. Her fur is all wet. Meanwhile, Sid looks up at me from the floor, head cocked, innocently wondering what’s wrong with Shelby. I shake my head at the little schizoid.

I go back to my computer to read more about the ferret show controversies, but it all seems so ridiculous now. I finish my tea, now cold, and close my email program. I look over at Dusty and Sid. Sid is fast asleep and Dusty is sucking on his ear, both seemingly content with this arrangement. I know that Sid will eventually complain about the little ear-nipper on his back, so I separate them, putting Dusty in the lower hammock. I head off to bed, myself.

I have to admit; mine are no show ferrets. They will never win any medals or blue ribbons. They are ferrets of the tattooed-ear clan, an embarrassment to ferret royalty. The only thing they will ever win is a place in my heart. I hope they are happy with that. I know that I am.

More Time for Words That Matter

2005-09-21T23:39:00.000-06:00

Comments for the USDA Standards for Ferrets have been extended until November 18th, 2005. We have almost 300 comments posted on the eDocket site. I don't know whether to say that's bad or good, considering the vast numbers of people who keep ferrets, but I am thankful for all those who have taken the time and energy to do their part to look out for ferrets. It’s quite possible they have extended the deadline because they saw a flicker of interest. They are giving us every chance to inform them of the various problems that ferrets, especially kits, endure each and every day. This flicker should become a flame.

Maybe we could concentrate in another direction. I would guess that it's safe to say that almost all people who keep ferrets have taken their ferrets to see a veterinarian at one time or another. While the USDA is looking for public interest and opinion, they are also looking for hard guidelines on which to base their regulations. Any rules and regulations that the USDA would propose would need to have a basis in science, and veterinarians would be the best source for that basis.

Contact your veterinarian and inform him of the proposed standards being put forth by the USDA. I am sure that many veterinarians are not even aware that this is being considered. Talk to your ferret’s veterinarian, and let him or her know what’s going on. Let him or her know that their expert opinions are needed. It would take very little of your time, and would go a long way in helping protect our ferrets, via the USDA’s Standards for Ferrets open comment period.

If you have not told your story, or given your comment, it is not too late.

Remember, there are hundreds of kits in crates right now, either waiting to be shipped or in the process of being shipped. They are in the air. They are in air cargo holding areas. Some are sick, with unhealed incisions. Some are dehydrated and stressed, traveling 20 or more to a crate. Almost all of these kits are too young to be where they are. These kits should still be nursing, not flying in airplanes.

Some die, even before they reach the pet stores. The ferret farms consider these deaths to be an acceptable and anticipated cost of doing business. I do not consider this “acceptable.” We have an opportunity to sound our voice and stop this. Our ferrets do not. They deserve better than this. Through the FML, we have given ferrets over $8,000 in aid and support. Surely, we can give them a few words.

USDA’s Standards for Ferrets eDocket

Snail mail address:

Docket No. 04–088–1
Regulatory Analysis and Development
PPD APHIS Station 3C71
4700 River Road, Unit 118
Riverdale, MD 20737–1238

(make sure to enclose 4 copies of your letter)

Roary
Albuquerque, NM

Anticipating Katrina

2005-09-01T00:18:00.000-06:00

My writings on the night of the 28th, the night before Katrina hit the gulf coast:

It is now 2:30am. I am a news junkie tonight. I am listening to Art Bell's live coverage of hurricane Katrina as it approaches the gulf coast. Katrina is predicted to hit as a category five hurricane, with winds of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. All news sources are saying that Katrina is going to be the worst hurricane to hit the gulf coast in decades, and it looks as if New Orleans will be taking the brunt of it.

I scour the internet while listening to Art. I read that New Orleans should already be evacuated for the most part, but many remain behind. Many are staying in New Orleans' Superdome, of all places. Art takes a call from a man who is going to ride out the storm in his home. Art and the man talk about the man's reasons for staying behind, illogical as they might be, but for some reason they shift to talking about pets who are being left behind.

I remember from previous hurricanes in Florida that pets are not allowed in shelters. I understand the reasoning for this, in a desperately pragmatic sense, but I cannot conceive of leaving my own pets behind. The first thing that crosses my mind is that ferrets cannot swim very well. It only takes me a few moments, however, to realize that it would make little difference. I am guessing that most people who left their ferrets behind would probably leave them in their cages. I think about the consequences of doing this, and it is like a bad dream.

I try to sort it out in my head. If I had to absolutely leave them behind, would I let them roam freely, hoping that they would make make it to safety? I think of the storm surge, and I realize that there is no such thing as safety in that scenario. Would I leave them in their cages, hoping for the best-case scenario, secured in my house in case doors and windows blew out? I give up. This is all lunacy. My wife and I would pack the car with our eleven ferrets, our dog, and some food and water, and gladly live in cramped quarters ("live" being the key word, here). Maybe this is lunacy, too. I live in Albuquerque, and never having lived in a coastal city I cannot conceive of the reality of evacuating my home with eleven ferrets and a dog.

I look at some news video, and I see that dolphins and seals from some marine entertainment park are now in a Best Western swimming pool. In the wild, marine animals such as these would have long since found safety, but these animals are not so lucky. In the video, people are laughing and enjoying the sight of dolphins and seals in a motel pool. It is a surreal sight. Even as the storm bears down on the gulf coast, these animals are still performing. Enough of this.

I check the internet for news on Katrina. I find a bridge cam in New Orleans, but the foreboding image shows little but a dark and wet lens. Last reports are showing Katrina as a category five storm with sustained winds up to one hundred and sixty-five miles per hour. There is talk that the storm surge might reach twenty-eight feet, ten feet above New Orleans' sea walls. Along Katrina's eye-wall, there are sixty-five foot waves. Art's guest talks about Katrina's worst-case scenario, where it takes out the levees and puts New Orleans entirely underwater. With the levees gone, the city will be transformed into a churning sludge of wreckage, chemicals, and sewage. But enough of these doomsday predictions, already. For those watching Katrina from the safety of their living rooms, it is so much info-tainment. But for those in the middle of this hurricane, it is a terrifying reality.

The FML pops into my inbox, and I read about the shelters who are battened down and riding out the hurricane. One post states that they have been unable to contact a New Orleans shelter. We can only hope that they have made it to safety, but moving 20 or more ferrets is a major undertaking. My thoughts and prayers are with them.

I try to imagine moving eleven ferrets in a Suzuki Sidekick. I'm not even sure I could do it. The only cage I have that would fit in my car would not be large enough to house eleven ferrets. I would have to fold up the larger cage, and put my guys in carriers. I realize that I only have two carriers which I use when I take my guys to the doc. The two carriers would not be enough to transport eleven ferrets. To boot, I carelessly imagine this taking place in fair weather. It is sobering to imagine undertaking this feat in a stinging rain, with wind gusts of 30 miles per hour or stronger. I can only hope at this point that all gulf coast ferrets have already been safely evacuated.

Art takes a heartbreaking call from a man who has abandoned his home in New Orleans and moved inland. The man has taken the deed from his home with him, and is taking refuge in a town of which he's unfamiliar. He anticipates the loss of his home, and it is easy to hear the desperation in his voice. It is not hard to imagine tens of thousands of people in that same state of mind, waiting for Katrina to hit.

My thoughts and prayers are truly with all of the gulf coast this morning. I am comfortable and dry in the safety of my own living room. Scritch wanders by, and I pick him up and nestle him in my arms, and he stays there for a bit without fighting me. Later, Shelby walks up my leg and calmly jumps up on my computer desk, curious about what I'm doing. They are my babies, alright. But tonight all the ferrets of the gulf coast are my babies, and my thoughts and prayers are with them.

For some reason, verses from the Bible pop into my head. I only remember parts of these verses, but I look up the rest. And while I am not a Christian in any true sense, I cannot help but take some sort of comfort from them:

"But soon a fierce storm arose... Frantically they woke him up, shouting, 'Teacher, don't you even care that we are going to drown?' When he woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the water, 'Quiet down!' Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm. And he asked them, 'Why are you so afraid?..' " (Mark 4:37-39)

May God be with all living beings, both afraid and steadfast, who await this unmerciful storm.

Apathy Kills

2005-08-30T12:58:00.000-06:00

My post to the FML for August 31st, 2005:

"It has been almost a month since the USDA/APHIS has given us a voice. And yet, we are almost stone silent. Don't get me wrong. I have seen some great letters on the USDA/APHIS site from some of you guys. I have spent this morning reading many of them, while I drank my tea. But I am stunned. I hadn't checked the numbers on the USDA/APHIS site for awhile, because a watched pot never boils. Apparently, watching doesn't matter, because this pot is not boiling. These are the numbers as of August 30th:

Total comments (INCLUDING snail mail) - 95
Total snail mail - 18

How is it that we have 2500 members on this list, and yet we have less than one hundred comments? And only 18 snail mails? What? I read all the happy posts on the list about what Pokey did and how he's so cute and it almost annoys me. Sometimes I think we're so involved in our own little corner of the world that we wouldn't notice the rest of the world if it went down in flames. And concerning this issue, it just might.

I read this morning how the Las Vegas shelter has 145 ferrets; 95 in house and 50 in foster homes. My god. One hundred and forty-five ferrets. This shelter is doing some very heavy lifting. I really don't know how they do it. I only have to clean up after 11 ferrets, and you should hear me cuss. I envision what it would be like in Las Vegas if this shelter did not exist. It is not hard to imagine. You know what the outcome would be.

Apathy kills.

I remember telling you the story of Jasper, whose cagemate died of a blockage. His owner, an educated professional woman, let her "favorite ferret" die of a blockage. I'm sure it was a slow and horrible death. I don't like to think about it, but I do from time to time. I don't know why this woman let this happen to her "favorite ferret," but she did. She could have gone to the vet. She could, if nothing else, put this ferret down so that it would not have suffered. She had money. She had intelligence. But she did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Apathy kills.

Sure, if you don't write a letter or make a comment to the USDA, probably no ferrets will suffer or die today because of it. Don't get me wrong, though. Ferrets will suffer and die today. Many of them. I know, no one wants to think about it. Believe me; I don't want to think about it, either. But they will suffer and die today, because when some of us had the chance, we chose not to think about it.

Apathy kills, people.

Buddhists are often misunderstood. Their philosophy teaches them to embrace suffering. It would seem that a Buddhist isn't happy unless he is suffering. They are wrongly characterized as the "great martyrs." The practice of zen is also misunderstood. People who practice zen make a conscious effort to "empty their minds." Who wants an empty mind? How boring. What good is an empty mind? But it is only when you empty your mind that you can fill it with things other than the same old thoughts and feelings that you are comfortable with. You open yourself up to new ways of thought.

So, why do Buddhists do this? They do it to become more aware of themselves, and to discover their own suffering. Discover their own suffering? Oh, just great. Just what we need, more suffering. But it is what we need. We can only cease suffering if we know that we ARE suffering. It is only then that we can change it. But we are stubborn creatures. We do not like to suffer, so we simply "don't."

I think this is what we're doing. I think I know what kind of people ferret people are, for the most part. We are a compassionate people. We willingly clean up crap on a daily basis. We go through great pains and great expense to take care of our guys. And when we lose them, our grieving is immense. I don't think our apathy takes place because we don't care. We care, alright. The FML is filled with stories of our grief and suffering. It is not disproportionate. These stories are our reality. We are human. We can only take so much pain before we shut it off. But if we constantly shut it off, we lose the ability to change what is hurting us. It is a vicious cycle.

Apathy kills.

If you cease to think about what we're trying to change, only because it is painful or inconvenient, the suffering of ferrets will go on. If you think that someone else will make a comment, or send a letter in your place, they won't. No one can sound your voice. If the USDA/APHIS decides to let this thing die, because out of the whole world of ferret owners, veterinarians, and shelter operators, only 95 replied - then it will die. The ferret farms, the airlines, and the pet stores will all continue to do what they are allowed to do, with what appears to be our blessing.

Well, they do not have my blessing. Do not give them yours. Drop the same old way of doing things, just for a little while, and make a comment or send a letter. No one will do it for you. The lack of replies to the USDA makes it pretty clear that they won't. Your voice has to come from you. Believe me, your voice will be heard. And so will your silence.

Apathy kills.

Roary
Albuquerque, NM
blog - http://ferretphilosophy.blogspot.com/

Standards for Ferrets info:

Web link

Snail mail -

Docket No. 04-088-1
Regulatory Analysis and Development
PPD APHIS Station 3C71
4700 River Road, Unit 118
Riverdale, MD 20737-1238"

My Letter on 'Standards for Ferrets'

2005-08-20T17:12:00.000-06:00

To the USDA and Dr. Jerry DePoyster
Regarding Docket 04-088-1 (Standards for Ferrets):

I want to thank you for the ability to input our knowledge and experiences concerning Docket 04-088-1 (Standards for Ferrets). It means a great deal to ferret owners like myself, who are concerned not only about their own pets, but about the welfare of all ferrets. We understand ferrets as complex and intelligent animals, but their needs are sometimes misunderstood and/or ignored. The regulations you are considering will go a long way in preventing the needless suffering they endure on a daily basis.

Ferrets are bred to become research animals and pets. Originally, ferret farms bred domestic ferrets almost entirely for research purposes. The life span of a ferret was a short one, and practices regarding their breeding and handling reflected this. Over time, ferrets became popular as pets, and ferret farms adjusted their marketing strategies to benefit from this. What they didn't change, however, was their breeding and handling practices. Ferrets are still treated by ferret farms as if they were all research animals with no expectation of a natural life span.

This has got to stop. Ferrets are intelligent and sociable animals, and they deserve intelligent and humane treatment. One only has to be in the company of ferrets for a short while to see that ferrets are on par with other companion animals, such as cats and dogs. And although they are a different kind of animal, requiring their own specific standards of care, they deserve the same kinds of rules and regulations that protect other companion animals.

Here are some points I would like to see addressed regarding future rules and regulations concerning ferrets:

If the ferret farms would give their breeding ferrets just a few more weeks to raise their young in a sociable manner, it would benefit both ferrets and the future owners of these pets. Instead, they are altered and descented before they are even weaned, and then shipped to pet stores before their teeth and digestive systems are ready to handle the adult kibble they will be forced to eat when they arrive there. Kits need to attain a minimum age of eight weeks before being shipped to pet stores. A kit that remains with its parents until the age of eight weeks is more sociable, and adapts more readily as a pet. I have seen kits, separated much too early from their parents, who have tried to nurse on my arm or the crook of my elbow. New ferret owners do not usually understand this behavior, and sometimes think that the kit is trying to nip them. The infant-like behaviors of these kits are never totally outgrown, showing the lasting impact of being separated much too early.

Kits are not mature dentally until they are eight weeks old, and they cannot properly chew kibble made for adult ferrets. Because the kibble is not able to be properly chewed, and also not nutritionally designed for kits, it is processed poorly by the kit's digestive system. Kits are extremely active and grow very fast. They need consistent quality nutrition to stay healthy and thrive.

Their inability to properly digest adult kibble also causes rectal prolapses. These prolapses can be quite painful for the kit, and can be fatal if not treated. While experienced ferret owners can easily recognize and treat this condition (simply by changing the kit's diet and using a topical medication), many pet stores are unaware of it, and often it goes untreated for as long as the kit is in the store, sometimes for weeks. One of my recently acquired kits, a female silver-mitt named Chase, had this problem. I treated it over the course of a couple weeks and she was fine. Later, I found out that her cagemate at the pet store (whom I didn't purchase, sadly) died as a result of this same problem. Both Chase and her cagemate at the pet store were too young to be there.

We can not count on pet stores to take the initiative to educate themselves on these kinds of matters. And even when pet stores have knowledge of these kinds of problems, they often do not want to spend the time or the money needed to correct them.

Overall, the best remedy for ensuring that a kit thrives between the time it leaves the ferret farm and becomes someone's pet, is to make sure that they are not shipped to pet stores before they attain the age of eight weeks.

My wife used to work as a contract courier for one of the major airline's air cargo division. Often, she saw kits arrive in sub-standard conditions. The crates the kits were shipped in were only a foot and a half by two feet, but often contained around twenty kits. They crates would be stacked on top of each other, usually on top of heavier inanimate cargo. Sometimes my wife saw them on the same pallet with cargo marked as hazardous material.

The kit's crates were accompanied by two cans the size of small tomato sauce cans, containing adult kibble and water - hardly enough for twenty kits. Many times both cans would be nearly empty, and their contents mixed with feces. Their bedding, consisting of wood shavings, was often dampened from the water, and mixed with spilled food and feces. My wife would try to attend to them by giving them food she brought from home and water from her sports bottle. The kits struggled with each other to get to the food and water she was able to supply.

The kits almost always arrived in these sub-standard conditions. They were hungry and dehydrated, and their bedding wet and fouled. My wife often saw kits who would not respond to her efforts to take care of them, although she tried her best. They appeared to be either sick or weak. The pet stores were supposed to pick up their ferrets as soon as possible after they arrived, but often they did not arrive for hours, and on occasion would not arrive until the next morning. Without my wife there, the kits would go without food or water until someone arrived to claim them.

Kits traveling by air (or other means) need to be treated more like living animals, and less like inanimate cargo. Animals should not travel with hazardous material, or with heavy cargo that could possibly injure or kill them if it shifted or fell over. The airlines have rules pertaining to delayed pick-up times of shipped animals, but often no consequences are applied to the recipient of this cargo if they fail to claim it in a timely manner.

I would like to see a reduced number of kits per crate. I would like to see a more secure and adequate supply of food and water provided by the ferret farms who ship these kits. I would like the people who work for the airlines in air cargo attend to these kits in some kind of responsible manner when they arrive, and periodically throughout the time they remain there.

Also, I am concerned about the temperatures the kits endure during shipping, both in flight and on the ground. While kits can endure colder temperatures, they cannot endure temperatures of 80 degrees fahrenheit or more. Ferrets are prone to heat stroke and dehydration, and higher temperatures combined with an inadequate supply of water can be a deadly combination, causing brain damage and kidney failure. Airlines have regulations about temperatures pertaining to warm-blooded animals, but I am concerned that these regulations are not stringent enough to protect ferrets from higher temperatures. Ferrets can not safely endure the same high temperatures that cats and dogs are able to endure.

There are many more issues I could speak of pertaining to ferrets, such as the high incidence of tumorous diseases in ferrets - adrenal disease, insulinoma, and lymphoma; all thought by many veterinarians to be caused by premature altering, line-breeding, and improper light cycles. The incidence of these diseases in ferrets is almost pandemic. I have eleven ferrets, and out of those eleven, five of them have been affected by one or more of those diseases. As I am typing this letter to you, Dusty, one of my older male ferrets, is undergoing exploratory surgery for both adrenal disease and insulinoma.

I know that the USDA cannot fix every problem I could list, but I want you to know how grateful I am for your time in considering the welfare of these special animals. My wife and I have kept ferrets for eight years now, and it breaks our heart to know that these animals suffer on a daily basis.

Thanks for your consideration of their suffering,
Roary and Yvonne Williams

Tiny Noses and Airplanes

2005-08-14T20:54:00.000-06:00

I am waiting for them. It is seven in the morning in the middle of September. I listen for the planes outside, the whining of their engines rising as they taxi closer to where I'm working. I'm a security guard at one of the major airline's air cargo centers. I know they're coming, but I don't know exactly which days they'll arrive. I keep my eyes open, watching for them. There are just a few people here with me. There are always just a few people here during working hours, labeling boxes, stacking boxes, driving forklifts, or sometimes just watching TV between arrivals. To these people, what I'm waiting for are just packages, but to me they are so much more.

A forklift rolls in, and I see them come in. I recognize the small wooden slats of the crates, measuring a foot and a half by two feet. There are two crates, one stacked on top of the other. They are on top of some bigger, heavier cargo - electrical components of some kind, bags of coolers containing medical specimens, and a few cardboard boxes with hazmat labels, all placed on the same pallet. The forklift drops them with a thud and drives off. I have to hurry. I only have so much time to do what I need to do. I walk quickly to the pallet of crates. As I get closer, tiny sets of eyes peer through the slats following the sound of my footsteps. I lean down and look through the slats of the top crate. There are about twenty kits, and most of them are awake. The rest are asleep, exhausted from the ordeal of their flight. The ones that are awake are excited by my presence. Some of the kits lick my nose while my face is against the slats. I hear a commotion from the bottom crate, and I move my face down and peer inside. This crate contains roughly another twenty kits, some standing on their back legs, noses sticking out from between the slats, watching me in curiosity.

The floors of both crates are an absolute mess. In a corner of each crate are two cans. One can has a tiny bit of water in the bottom, mixed with some feces. The majority of the water has spilled out of the can and has dampened the pine shavings that the kits are using as bedding. The other can contains a few pieces of kibble that somehow managed to stay in place during the flight. The rest of the kibble is spread throughout the floor of the crate, mixed in with damp shavings and more feces. The conditions of both crates are the same. This is how the kits have traveled for hours.

The cans are not very big, about the size of small tomato sauce cans. Not very much food and water for twenty kits, it would seem. And now the cans are fouled and nearly empty. I reach into my coat and pull out my plastic sports bottle. I fill it with fresh water from the water fountain. Slowly, I squeeze the bottle to release the water. I place the tip between the slats where the kits can reach it easily, but there are too many. The kits who are awake fight each other for a few licks from the bottle. They are so thirsty. They push and shove each other for the water, sometimes crawling on top of each other to get to the bottle, and sometimes pushing themselves up from the bottom. Almost all of the sleeping kits are awake now, roused by the commotion, and they join the melee. There are just too many, and even though I can refill the bottle, none are getting very much water as I stand in one place. I walk around the crate, sliding the water bottle between the slats, moving the bottle so that each of the kits can get a decent drink. After slowly walking around the top crate quite a few times, I move the bottle down to the bottom crate and circle around it in the same manner. The entire time, kits from both crates follow me as I circle around them, every once in a while standing on their back feet and sticking their noses out, vying for my attention. They are so cute, and as much as I want to stroke their little noses, I simply can't. There's not enough time.

I hear the whining of the jet engines getting louder. I have to hurry. More planes are coming in, and these pallets will probably be moved to make room for the newly arrived cargo. I don't always know where they take them. I refill the water bottle at the drinking fountain. I then squirt streams of water into all four cans in an effort to clean them. It is not a perfect job, but the cans are cleaner than they were before. Even as I'm doing this, the kits are trying to drink the dirty water that's streaming from the cans. Once finished, I fill one can in each crate with water. I then pull a bag of kibble I have brought from home out of my coat pocket and fill the other two cans with the kibble. A small scramble ensues, and the kits eat and drink from all four cans. They are no longer moving in the belly of a plane, so they should be OK. My job requires that I attend to other, more official duties. I have to leave the kits now. I need to make my rounds. The pet stores are supposed to send someone to pick up the kits as soon as possible after they arrive, but often that doesn't happen. If the kits are not picked up within a few hours, they are stored with luggage and other freight in a secured area, sometimes until the next morning. This is the last I will probably see of them.

It is the next morning; it is September eleventh. It is just after nine in the morning and all the freight-handlers are watching TV. There is nothing to do. All planes have been grounded. One of our planes has been flown into one of the Twin Towers, probably by terrorists. Shortly afterwards, another company's plane hits the other tower. Everyone is in shock. The fiery crashes are replayed over and over again, and we watch in disbelief. I realize that I will not be seeing any thirsty kits today. Most of our planes transport animals, and my heart sinks as I wonder about the plane that hit the tower. I reach into my pocket and feel my sports bottle, pathetically empty and useless. I close my eyes and think back to all those tiny noses between the slats, thirsty and looking for attention...

Later, when I get home from work, the first thing I see as I walk in the door are my own tiny noses, sticking out of the bars of their cage, waiting for me as they always do. And even though their water bottles are mostly full, I empty and refill them - just because I can.

------------------------------------------------

This story was relayed to me a few years ago by my wife, who worked as a contract security guard at an airport. I put her story into words, simply so that you could have a better understanding of why the Standards for Ferrets eDocket is so important:

Standards for Ferrets eDocket (if this link doesn't take you directly there, then go to the top and do an 'advanced search' for docket # APHIS-2005-0063. That should take you right where you want to go.)

The government is giving up a chance to voice our opinions on the standards for ferret handling and care. They are asking for people with experience with ferrets to give their opinions about rules and regulations that will eventually be put into place. It is a great opportunity for us, and we need to utilize it by giving them information about ferrets that only we can provide.

I know many, many of you have your own simular stories. At the very least, submit a comment, in your own words, telling them why ferrets need special care and handling. Better yet, for more impact, send them snail mail on this subject:

Docket No. 04–088–1
Regulatory Analysis and Development
PPD APHIS Station 3C71
4700 River Road, Unit 118
Riverdale, MD 20737–1238

(Mention that your letter is in reference to Docket No. 04-088-1, and include 4 copies of the actual letter. Hey, it IS a governmental agency, you know. They love paper ;)

This is our chance to make a difference in how the animals we love and care for are treated on an every-day basis. Let's not waste this opportunity.

Where Will I Get My Fix Now?

2005-08-10T15:06:00.000-06:00

My post to the FML about a few people who were driving the rest of us nuts, posting and fighting amongst themselves while we watched:

"I am very disappointed. I am afraid that I probably won't be seeing any more of the 'disgusting, evil, wicked, nasty, stinky, smelly' posts on the list. They were great. Each and every night, I would stay up into the early morning hours and wait for the latest issue of the FML to pop into my inbox, just to see the subject lines. I would scroll down: 'Pet for Adoption' - bah, got enough... 'My Binky Is So Cute' - yes, we know... 'Line Breeding' (I concluded that this probably wasn't a 'disgusting evil wicked' post, but merely a related topic)... until finally, I hit a 'disgusting, evil, wicked, nasty' post. My fix was satisfied!

I have to thank BIG for letting it go on and on - the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, post after post, each more indignant and melodramatic than the last, until the posts prompted two exasperated ferrets to get on a tractor and use them to start their own compost pit. It eventually wound down with the expected 'I've had it, I quit the list' post. Although I expected it, it still puzzled me. Quit the list? Twenty-five hundred members, and someone would quit the list because of a few people's postings? Why would you? I mean, where can you get this kind of drama sent right to your inbox on a daily basis? Moderation, schmoderation... BIG knows what he's doing.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not denigrating the seriousness of these posts. I'm sure these posts were very serious, with important points being made each and every single time, repeated over and over again for emphasis. It's just that I never got that far. The accusatory evil said/nasty said comments usually got to the point that reading them was like observing a car wreck. With each post, however, the cars would back up and ram each other again! It was astounding! I would find myself just sitting there at times, staring at my monitor in stunned silence, realizing that I couldn't remember what I had just read. But no matter. I could read it all again in twenty-four hours.

This morning, however, we reached the post we sadly knew was coming - the post saying that there would be no more posts on this subject. I don't understand why people do that. I mean, if you're not going to post about something, then why would you post about not posting about it? Is there going to be another post about THAT? You people have got to understand that I only have so much time in the day to read these things.

Ah, well it's back to the business of ferrets, I suppose. I know we have more important things to read (and DO, I might add), like the Standards For Ferrets edocket (very important), news on the black-footed ferret, and donating to the FML 5000 Fund (remember, we still have 2499 members, so let's get a move on).

But inwardly I'm hoping for the next major controversy, with all the appropriate postings. It's like waiting for the next L.A. car chase. You know it's coming, you know how it's basically going to end, but you can't wait for Channel 5's Eye In The Sky to bring you the live video. I'm going to stay tuned. I'm not going to be quitting the list anytime soon. I will keep my computer fired up, make myself a pot of tea, and watch CNN for distraction while I wait. Huh? Hold on. It seems that CNN already has some breaking news. Apparently the California Highway Patrol is on southbound I-5, chasing two ferrets who have run amok on a tractor."

Jaw's War Dance

2005-08-05T13:12:00.000-06:00

It's 3am and I'm still up. My eyes are all dried out and blurry, and my mind is somewhat numbed. I've wanted to write something amusing for awhile now, but I'm not going to be able to achieve "amusing mode" this morning. I wish I could. I really do. But this morning, as I read the FML, I find nothing amusing.

I hear a noise coming from the cage next to me. I watch Jaws scratch himself with his hind leg. He tumbles off the ledge, as he sometimes does, onto the carpet at the bottom of the cage. He has trouble telling up from down most of the time. He gets up, shakes it off, and quizzically looks up at the light, wondering why it's still on. Sometimes I forget that they need their dark. The fall wasn't far, maybe seven inches or so, and no damage was done. He uses the litter box, and then he climbs back up to the ledge and proceeds to get a drink and an early-morning kibble snack. It is a routine he repeats at least once every morning.

He is my big boy. Before his illness, he was the protector of the new guys who would come into the business. While all the other ferrets would pick on the new guys, Jaws would protect them when things got rough. The new guys would end up sleeping next to him, curled up in peace. About two years ago, he had a stroke (as best we can tell) while he was recovering from the flu. His movements are always shaky and unbalanced. He moves as if he has Parkinson's disease. He is not a graceful ferret. But what he lacks in grace, he makes up for in heart. Every one who watches him move can tell that he has something wrong with him. Every one knows except him. He goes about his ferret business, incognizant of his disability. He plays, he fights, and he even war dances. His war dances are both comical and painful to watch. His zigs do not match his zags, and he easily loses his footing. Yet, while his dances are a reminder that we almost lost him, they are also a reminder that we did not. It is in this duality that I take my comfort this morning.

I skim the postings in the FML. Skimming is about all I can take this morning. The very first story is about a 26-year-old man who appointed himself the pet-euthanizer of a town in New York. I try to comprehend what actually happened, but it makes no sense to me. The local Humane Society is overwhelmed with 50 animals taken from this guy’s home, but they are trying. Amongst the 86 animals this man collected and abused, is a lone ferret who somehow survived this insanity. Someone had apparently turned him in to this man, thinking he would do the right thing. I am being optimistic, here. I'm not sure that they were thinking at all.

I read a little further down. A NJ shelter is going to put down a female ferret if they cannot come up with the funds for her adrenal surgery. And not only are they going to put this ferret down, but they will be putting her brother down too. Why? Because without her, he would have a broken heart. They would put down a healthy ferret because of a "broken heart?" This is a ferret shelter? I understand being in a hard place and needing funds, but I don't understand this line of thinking in the least. I hope this is just a ploy for money, instead of the desperate insanity it seems to be. I cannot conceive in my mind that they would actually do this.

A little further down I read about Fuzz, a ferret with a beautiful mask. His dad is grieving his loss after a sudden illness. His dad originally found him outside his doorstep in a cage, abandoned on a hot day. Somehow Fuzz found his way to a good place. His dad saw the beauty in him. How does one person see a life as meaningless and another see it as a thing of meaning and beauty?

I start to think on these things. I realize that no matter what I do, I can't stop these kinds of things from happening. I imagine all the acts of thoughtlessness and cruelty going on at this very moment, and the overwhelming sadness of it starts to weigh down on me. I take a sip of my tea and close my eyes, and let it go as best I can. And then it comes to me...

We are all doing Jaw's war dance, moving through this life shaky and unbalanced. We stumble and lose our footing, but then we stand back up, shake it off, and continue. We lose our sense of up and down, our zigs do not match our zags, and yet we take heart and continue. We comfort and protect, and even when we need comfort and protection ourselves, we still continue. All our misjudgments and imperfections are forgotten in the war dance of continuance.

It is early and silent here. I look at the cage and see Jaws curled around Cubby, still "protecting" him. I think of all the ferrets that need protection. It is a weight I will never be able to lift by myself. It is a weight that no one will ever be able to lift completely. So I get out of my computer chair, make myself some eggs over easy, and fix myself some tea. I am alive and I need my nourishment. The sun is coming up, and I have war dancing to do.

Milo's Story

2005-07-24T15:52:00.000-06:00

Posted to the Ferret Mailing List:

I am sitting here drinking my tea. I’ve not had a good morning. I had to clean my room. I have dust that has supernatural powers. Not only did my dust give me crap, but my ferrets (unused to seeing me move this much) were following me all over the place, getting in my way. It was like the Jet’s dance number in West Side Story. First one would follow me, in perfect sync with my movements. Then there were two. Next thing you know, I had about 6 of them moving side to side with me, snapping their fingers. They were fascinated that I was actually moving about the house. I think they were trying to figure out what major emergency got me out of my computer chair. Would you heathens get out of my way? I could use you for dust mops, you know.

I am back in my computer chair, now. The Jets have settled down, relieved that I haven’t hurt myself. I think to myself, “Ah, now I can relax.” It took me about an hour to clean my room, and I have to work later. This is my private time. I open my email program and go through the usual spam. No, I don’t want a fake Rolex. No, I don’t want to buy Valium over the internet (I change my mind later, however). No, I don’t want to read erotic stories about farm animals, for Christ’s sake. Delete delete delete.

I always save the FML for last. I can read it slowly, taking my time while I savor my tea. I start reading, and not more than two posts down I get to K’s story about Milo. As I read about Milo, I realize that I’m not consciously drinking my tea anymore. I read about Milo falling off the balcony the first time. Ah, he’s OK. Good. Then I get to the part where he falls off a second time. A second time? For some reason, my lip starts to hurt. I realize that I am biting it. I read that this time Milo is not so OK. Broken leg. Dehydrated. But still very trusting. On reading the “very trusting” part, I clench my jaws and close my eyes.

K is a much better person than I am. I would not be talking to the mother at this point about anything. I would... well, I'd... I’m trying to think of non-violent ways of dealing with mom and the kids, but it isn’t working. The only thing I can come up with is measuring the height of the balcony and figuring out the trajectory of flying children and a flying mother. I don’t even know who’s fault it is. I know my thoughts are irrational, and that accidents happen, and that people are not perfect. But screw all that. I am allowing myself to be angry. I squirm in my chair, and my scalp itches. I tap repeatedly on my trackball.

I eventually start to settle down. I no longer want to toss people off balconies. That would be wrong. I want them deported. I don’t care if they were born and raised here. I think of stories I can tell the INS that would cause this family to be deported back to their faux homeland, Africa. I don’t have anything against the African people, mind you. I was simply thinking of hungry lions and small children. Africa was the first deportation destination I considered. I thought to myself, “Africa might be the proper environment for this family.” Yes, hungry lions, rogue elephants, alligators... these can be the family’s new pets. It would even up the odds. They’re not going to play too rough with THAT kitty. An alligator might fall down the stairs, but not without a kid in it’s mouth! Oh, the supreme justice of it all.

OK, I know. I gotta stop. But that’s where the problem starts. While all of my “fantasy solutions” to this unthinkable act of irresponsibility distract me, the fact that stuff like this happens all the time stuns me back into reality. I just want to punch something. I want to yell at somebody. It’s not that I want to do these particular things. I just want to do something, anything, so that I don’t feel so helpless. But I am helpless. We’re all helpless to so much of what goes on around us. All we can ever do is the best we can do. I think of Milo - broken leg, suffering, but still so trusting. How did this happen to you, Milo? Twice, no less. How do we humans, who are so much wiser than ferrets, let these kinds of things happen? I blink my blurring eyes.

Maybe there’s something I can do. I emailed K and offered her a bit of money so that Milo could get his leg fixed. It’s either he gets his leg fixed, or he loses the use of it. Nope. Not happening. Not because of this irresponsible family. I can’t afford much. I have two surgeries scheduled for my own guys this month. But I can afford something. I am going to send K $25 to help with Milo’s medical costs. It is the very least that I can do. Maybe if enough of us could do that, we could give Milo a happy ending. It wouldn’t need to be much, if enough of us were able to do this for Milo.

Don’t get me wrong. I know that we have ferrets here on the list who need help as badly as Milo needs it. Nobody has asked me to do this for Milo. I don’t know why Milo’s story has touched me in the way that it has. I want to help him for my own reasons. Maybe it’s because of Navi. I want for just one tiny bit of a moment not to feel so helpless. I know there are tons of other ferrets who need help. My own need medical care. And they'll get it - that's my responsibility. But sometimes you just have to pick a situation and run with it. I just keep thinking of Milo and all he’s been through. And yet he’s still so trusting. I can do this much. I just can’t picture Milo not having a happy ending. I just won't.

Roary
Albuquerque, NM
http://ferretphilosophy.blogspot.com

ps. I thought about kidnapping the family and ransoming them for the money, but who would pay to get them back? Let’s stick with deporting them...

----------------------------

UPDATE on Friday July 29th: Milo did OK, although imaging revealed previous injuries. It seems Milo has been somewhat abused or neglected by this family. Milo will have a limp, but he'll be able to get around OK. He's home now, and doing well (that's him at the top).

Anybody wanting to send funds to help defray the cost of Milo's surgery, and otherwise help the ferretshelter who took him in, can send them via PayPal to this address: ferretfarm@earthlink.net

A Tour of Downtown Albuquerque

2005-07-19T11:46:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was a decent day. Most people would say, "Ah, I had a wonderful day. I did absolutely nothing." Well, since that's just about every day for me, my decent day started with me actually doing something. I say "started," but actually it was several hours before I got my ass off my computer and pedaled it downtown. I went downtown to take care of some business, but mainly to take some pictures I've wanted to take for a long while. I bought myself another camera to replace the one that somehow disappeared - which still really annoys me - but, anyways, yesterday kinda made up for it somehow. I enjoyed tooling around downtown on my bike, and in general acting like a tourista.

I stopped at the convenience store across the street from the Anodyne bar, and bought myself a Diet Pepsi slam and a couple mini honey-flavored cigars. Getting on my bike, after taking a few swigs off my slam, I forgot and left it on the sidewalk. A few minutes later, when I remembered, I came back to get it, but it was gone. Hey, nobody can accuse me of not feeding the homeless.

Well, to start out, I took some pictures of the fountain that I wanted to show my son Dan (and would like to show my daughter Rachel, one day) when he was here. The city of Albuquerque was still hydrophobic, so they didn't have the fountain going at that time. Thanks, Mayor Chavez. We could still water the medians, IN THE RAIN, but we couldn't run the fountain. You fuckers. Well, this is Albuquerque, for Christ's sake. I don't know what I expected:

Some of the first pictures I took were of the tiles on 2nd Street, on the Visitor Information Center, which is right next to the Convention Center. You know, blah blah blah... where people come to sell us crap and hang out and think Albuquerque's a wonderful city, at least until they get sick of it, jump back on their planes, and fly home as fast as possible. And if you go by the tiles, you might actually THINK that Albuquerque's a wonderful city:

One tile that especially sticks out, at least to me, is one of a frog, done in forest green. The frog has some excellant details. I don't know why, but I really like the butterfly and dragonfly (at least, they resemble something like that) inside of the frog:

And last, but not least, in our tour of downtown Albuquerque, is my favorite piece of art. It's right near the bus station, again on 2nd Street. I don't know what it's called, or who painted it, but it's a great mural painted on the side of a building. It's hard to get the scale of it by looking at these dinky pictures, but it's actually quite large. I've included a few details of it, so you can get the idea of how large it is. The first picture looks like the cars are parked right next to the wall, but they aren't. In between the cars and the mural is 2nd Street. You can get run over by a bus there, if you're not paying attention. Heck, I almost tripped, walking backwards to get the shot. Hey, anything for you touristas:

Well anyways, that, my friends, is the conclusion of our tour of downtown Albuquerque. A bit later tonight, you might want to head on up to Tricore Reference Laboratory (right across from the new Embassy Suites Hotel, where J-Lo just shot a movie) and listen for gunfire in Martineztown. Ah, it's a wonderful place, this city.

The IRS, the Information Highway, and Breathing

2005-07-15T10:30:00.000-06:00

Well, I got the IRS to drop my payments. I'll be paying it off for another year, but hey. I thought it WAS paid off, but my wife (who's had recent head trauma... hmmm) apparently thought it was paid off, too. It wasn't. They just stopped sending the paperwork. Just great. Well, it would have been, except they resumed sending the paperwork. Not so great. These assholes, you would think they would just keep sending the paperwork so they could keep receiving their payments, but no. One has to wonder if this is some kind of Psy-Ops, or something. Or maybe I'm just a dumbass who didn't pay his taxes on time. And that's another thing. The government can owe a zillion dollars (OK, just a trillion) and keep on floating checks, but if I owe just a little less than two grand I might go to jail, or have my check levied. Well, I guess they gotta keep floating them checks, and I guess they need my piddly little payment to do it. "Hi, I'm here from the government. I'm here to help you." Thanks.

Well, the good news is that I can afford to replace my camera that someone stole. Maybe I should get the government on that. Wait, those idiots can't even find Osama, and they KNOW where he is. Just replace the goddamn camera. Who needs the stress of being pissed off about it? If I want stress, I'll try and have a conversation with my wife. She's in a pissy mood this morning. Well, most mornings, but this morning she was in an aggravated, pissed-off mood. Yep, that's why I love her. Once we got done exchanging nastinesses to each other, I asked her, "What's really wrong? What's bothering you? Is it because I'm breathing?" "Yeah, I guess, I don't know." Fine. I'll stop breathing. I needed to take a break from breathing, anyways.

The monkeys (what I call my ferrets) are out and about. Chase, my little girl born on February 13th this year, has been climbing up on my leg to see what I'm doing. So has Shelby. These guys are what make the IRS and my wife's problems bearable, for the most part. Chase runs up my leg like I'm the embodiment of the Information Highway and she needs to look up "ferret food" on Google. She sits on my lap, looking up at my desk, her true goal. I let her put her front feet up on the desk, but when she jumps up I grab her and put her down on the floor. I can't have her type out this blog, although I'm sure she would have fun trying. She's a smart girl. No sooner do I put her down on the floor, than she makes a quick U-turn and runs back up my leg. I put her down, and we do it again. I think I can see her smiling as she runs up my leg again. This time I put her on the chair next to me. She looks at me, indignant, jumps off the chair and runs back to the Information Highway. I start laughing, and then I let her get a little futher on my desk before I grab her and put her back down on the floor. It's a wonderful game. I'm not thinking about taxes, or bitchiness, or work, or anything, even if it's just for a few minutes. I needed this.

Anyways, it's now 11am, and I gotta be at work in two hours. I need to move my butt and get to the bank and maybe find me a digital camera. Probably, two days after I buy a new one we'll find the old one. I'll give it to my wife if I do. Maybe then I can resume breathing.

Dropping Rocks

2005-07-15T00:29:00.000-06:00

The dawning of another day. Well, kinda. It's just about midnight, and I didn't have to work. Thank fucking god. Kevin brought me my check (because he's a good guy), and I might just go to damn Walmart's and buy myself a digital camera to replace the one that someone took (or I lost, who the hell knows? Jesus H. Christ, I'm losing it).

I miss having my camera and taking movies of the guys (my ferrets, that is). Scritch has been beating up on Wild Thing, and so has Sid. Kodak moments, to be sure. Wild Thing won't always be little, and I gotta snap them pics while he's still here to snap.

I didn't do a goddamn thing today. It was wonderful. Well, it was horrible that I didn't get anything done, but hey... I got enough pressure and bullshit to deal with. It's like having a load of rocks on your back. You don't want to carry them around, but you feel like you have to. I talked to a good friend of mine. He told me that if I couldn't drop all the rocks, maybe I could just drop one or two at a time. He's fucking brilliant. I have a whole load of rocks, alright. If I can't drop them all, I ain't dropping any of 'em - that's my motto... because I'm a genius, apparently. Anyways, he's right. So the past few weeks I've been trying to drop rocks. Not very many rocks, but some of the bigger ones. I gotta watch out, though, lest I drop one of them on my toe.

Work is like dropping a rock on your toe. Work has acheived the heights of absolute stupidity. I get to go back to THAT tomorrow. Just great. But hey, it's Friday, which means that Saturday comes next - a full goddamn day of stupidity. But then comes my weekend. And so it goes.

Kevin's out there right now, fighting the stupidity. He's out there driving around, from hospital to hospital, trying to get the job done. Howdy there Kevin, you poor sonofabitch. I wonder what kind of bullshit is going on tonight. Could be anything. Could be nothing. Maybe Kevin's having some Cafe Du Monde, right at this very moment. Wait, no... it's just after midnight. He's doing the 12, or just getting back from it. If fucking Kaseman ain't jumping up and down, that is. There's a rock, alright. Rocks are everywhere, but Kaseman is a quarry.

Wondering about Uncle Al. That sonofabitch is probably getting laid. He's goddamn 82 (or 83, hell... I don't remember) and he probably gets laid more than I do. Well, he definitely does, but that's another story. There's a man who's seen some rocks in his time. Managed to drop them all, it seems. When he quits (about the time I retire, probably), it will be a sad day. As much as I hate my job sometimes, I know that I'll miss him and it. I know, put down a rock to pick it right back up again. Hey, it's a small rock.

Anyways, enough of the rambling. You have a good night, Kevin. I'm going to make some tea. Then I'm going to get myself a camera. And maybe drop a rock or two. One never knows.

To October

2005-07-03T16:32:00.000-06:00

I posted this to the FML in response to October, a woman who was giving up her ferret shelter because of the stupidity and cruelty of people towards ferrets. She just couldn't do it any more. My heart really went out to her, and I didn't want her to lose herself:

"I have many times wondered how people who run ferret shelters do the job that they do. Now having 11 ferrets ourselves, we have our own mini-shelter, and I understand a bit better. Sid, Jasper, Scritch & Bubbles, and Shelby were all given to us by people who no longer wanted them. Saying “no longer wanted them” is mostly kind.

Sid was a “hamster-killer”. I didn’t know this, initially. The reason this couple gave to us for wanting to get rid of Sid is that they were having a new baby, and no longer had the “time” to care for him. I later found out that the real reason they wanted to get rid of him was that they had put a hamster in his cage “for him to play with,” and he did what carnivores do - he killed it. Their little 3-year-old girl was traumatized. Not by the death of the hamster, but by the stupidity of her parents, realizing that she has their DNA. That people equate ferrets with hamsters and gerbils is a fact that still amazes me. Small + furry = rodent, apparently. We have the internet, people. Use it once in awhile.

Jasper had a cage mate who died of a blockage, as best I could tell. Jasper’s cage mate was supposedly the owner’s “favorite” ferret. She said she couldn’t afford the vet bill, and she didn’t know what was wrong with her ferret. So she did nothing. She explained the problem to me and I recognized the symptoms immediately as a probable blockage. Any ferret-wise vet could have figured it out, but they never got the chance because she never went. It didn’t matter, anyways, because she wasn’t going to pay for the surgery. So her “favorite” ferret suffered until she eventually died. When this ferret died, she no longer wanted Jasper. She worked as a supervisor in one of our biggest hospitals, so she wasn’t stupid or poverty-stricken. It just boggled my mind. The whole time I talked to this woman I wanted to spit, but I smiled and nodded my head. When she asked us to take Jasper I was relieved, thinking that she might have changed her mind. He’s one of our best little boys. And she’s probably still a self-centered idiot with an extra $500.

I don’t know the entire story behind Scritch and Bubbles. They were being kept all day in their cage inside of a garage. The owners, a young couple, apparently ended up living with someone else and the ferrets weren’t allowed into the house. My wife met them at the vet’s. I think they were bringing in a dog, or something. I guess the dog was allowed into the house. When they saw my wife with Puff, they asked her if she wanted two more ferrets. She said yes, as one who has 8 ferrets and head trauma would say (just kidding, honey). I understand and yet don’t understand the young couple’s dilemma. People have problems. And then people create their own problems. But hey, they loved animals. At least, they loved the IDEA of animals. To try and figure it out will make blood shoot out of your ears.

Shelby is a sweet little girl, about two years old or so. Her owner moved to a new apartment, where... surprise... they don’t allow ferrets. She then gave Shelby to a friend of her’s at work, “just to watch for awhile.” Her friend watched Shelby for a long while, and then when the friend realized that the original owner wasn’t going to be able to take Shelby back, the friend took Shelby to her mom’s house. Her mom had bunches of dogs, and couldn’t let Shelby out very much, although she did try. To the friend’s credit, she found out that I had ferrets and asked if I could take Shelby. After hearing this whole ridiculous story, my wife and I decided to take her in. Now, after talking to the original owner, I found out that she and her brother loved this ferret very much. They took her everywhere. And that’s why they moved to an apartment which doesn’t allow ferrets. The End. I gotta stop. I feel blood rushing to my ears.

So, what’s my point?..

I used to hate people. People aren’t my favorite things now, exactly, but I see things a bit differently. I would see a screaming kid in a store and want to bat their little eyes out. It troubled me that this was my initial response. We’re supposed to love kids. We’re supposed to love our own kind. Why we’re supposed to, I have no idea, but I think I read it in a book or something. But again, it troubled me, this hatred of people that I sometimes have. Now, I’ve always remembered loving animals. In my later years, my affections have concentrated on ferrets. While despising innocently crying children (and not so innocently smirking adults), I have the patience of Job with ferrets, even one who’s just about bitten my finger off. So, wanting to fit into human society (because I am human and need to earn a living), I came up with a different way to see people:

When I see a little bawl-bag in the mall, crying for no apparent reason, I picture the kid as a baby ferret. I actually picture their face as a furry little mask, and instantly my compassion level goes up. I realize that there must be a reason for their distress, and my nerves quickly start to de-frazzle. Kits and kids are not really all that different, I think to myself. They are all just baby somethings, with different problems and different tail lengths.

I see an old lady driving way too slowly in front of me. I could never figure that one out. I’m getting old myself, and I manage to drive at a normal speed. I could understand if the old lady was walking, but she’s got a gas pedal. Just step on the pedal, lady! How hard can it be? And then I remember one of my older ladies, Deezel. She was about 6 years old. She and I would be in the kitchen, and I would go to get something out of the fridge. She would nonchalantly walk in front of me, saunter up to the open door fridge door and take a peek. Could you walk any more slowly, ma’am? I would get what I needed to get, but she would still be standing up at the door, looking at all the goodies, and feeling the wonderful cold air as it drifted down. There I am, hands full, wanting to close the door - but do you think that she would see that I’m done and get outta the way? I would often put down what I got out of the fridge, make my sandwich, put the stuff back, and THEN pick Deezel up because she would still be standing there. Sometimes I would just stand there for a while holding her, and wonder how much time we had left together. The fridge door would still be open and the cold air would still be pouring out. Eventually, I would close the fridge door and put Deezel down. Often, I forgot my sandwich as I went back to the living room. Damned old weasel. I would go back to the kitchen. No, I’m not opening the door. I’m getting old, myself.

So I use that memory of mine. I picture this old lady, driving down the freeway at 35mph, as one of my older ferrets, mask and all, and think to myself that I probably have more time left than she does. Cancer doesn’t care whether it takes an old lady human or an old lady ferret. Maybe the old lady is driving slowly because she’s on her way to see the doctor and she’s just flat-out scared to get there and find out that she doesn’t have very much time left. Or maybe she’s just a pain-in-the-ass. Who knows? I drive around the old lady while I contemplate this, and I’m on my way in a sort of peace, at least for the next mile or so.

OK, OK, so again... what’s my point, besides the fact that I possibly have a mental illness?..

October, you’ve explained your anger and frustrations very well. And as you have pointed out, people are just downright thoughtless. And mean. And clueless. And desperate. But those aren’t the reasons you should give up doing what you do. Those are the reasons you started doing what you do in the first place — because people are thoughtless, mean, clueless, and desperate. Give up what you’re doing because you’re broke, or your knees don’t work, or whatever, but don’t give it up because you don’t see the good of the world in people. You see the good in the world in ferrets, a good worth preserving, and that’s good enough. Take that ball and run with it, October, as far as you can. And when you eventually go to the bridge yourself, to say hello once again to all the ferrets you’ve lost, you will be smothered in fur and kisses for all eternity. And no poo."

The Plan

2005-05-16T00:23:00.000-06:00

I lost Navi today. Somehow, she slipped past me out the door and made her way next door. She was only outside for a minute. Our neighbor has two pit bulls, and one of them grabbed her. She was not afraid of dogs, and she wandered into their yard. I don’t blame the dogs. They are what they are. They didn’t maul her, but when the one grabbed her (I don’t know which one. It doesn’t matter) she suffered some kind of blunt trauma. X-rays showed no internal bleeding. She was in severe shock from what we could tell. Maybe she was shaken by the dog. We’ll never know. At the vet’s, they were doing everything they could to pull her out of this shock, but she arrested and became non-responsive. Her pupils were fixed and dilated. At that point she was gone. My wife and I went back to the vet’s so we could let her go. She passed in my wife’s arms.

I’m not writing this to get the usual ecards and sympathy emails, however, although I know you guys will. But I was thinking to myself that old proverbial thought that ferret-owners sometimes think when they lose one of their guys - that maybe my wife and I shouldn’t get any more ferrets. Who needs this pain? No more ferrets, damnit. Too many damn mistakes to make. Too many illnesses to fight. Who needs all this pain? These gut-wrenching casualties, these tiny pieces of your soul - lost to disease, lost by accident, by stupidity, and even when you do everything you could have done and been as careful as you could have been, the pain is the same. Who needs this? I don’t.

I need the pain to end. I am gasping for air. I so need this pain to end that I make this plan in my mind - no more ferrets. No more kits, no more rescues. I will wait until all the ones we have pass. I will take the pain, one by one. One will pass and I will suffer through it. And another will pass, and another, and I will suffer the losses until I have lost them all, one by one, and then I will be rid of this anguish. It is a brilliant plan. I will have taken care of my ferrets, done the right things as best I could, and finally be free from those gut-wrenching casualties. Then, I will sit at my computer and look at all the jpgs of my ferrets in silence. I will no longer have to worry when I get up about where I step. The floor will be empty. I will have so much time on my hands, and I will think, and I will think, and I will think, and my thinking will turn into echoes, and the echoes will swirl and swirl doing tiny war-dances in the air, and I will be happy again, even if just for a split-second, thinking of them... but they will not be here. Not one will be here. My plan crashes down around me.

My plan fails me because I have not foreseen the ending. The ending is the unbearable ending of silence. It will be the most tumultuous silence I have ever heard. And even though my body will be old and slow, my thoughts will be war-dancing in my head, alive as any of my ferrets ever were. And I will not have outwitted my pain, for it will have outwitted me. The pain will be with me always in the war-dancing of my memories. It will shine up at me from the horribly clean and empty floor.

I sit here and think about Navi. I have lost her on my watch. I cannot even conceive of her not being here. Even as I type to distract myself, my hands weigh a thousand pounds. My wife has let the guys out, and I turn and look. I remember that they are only nine now. They are running around and getting into trouble, naturally. It seems so surreal, as if nothing was wrong. Jasper climbs the outside of his cage and goes in through the top door. He turns around, confused... how did I get in here? I snicker at the little clown, and I realize that I have lost my anguish for just a second or two. He looks at me and I walk over and rescue him. I sit back down. Right next to me are three piles of poo. I wonder if one or more of them could be Navi’s, and in my silliness my anguish returns. Scritch paws my leg and I look down and pick him up, feeling so unworthy as I draw him close to me. I hold him tight to me because I am so afraid, but he wants down because he’s not. I sigh. I hear Sid beating up on Jaws, and turn around to see Jaws laying on his back outwitting Sid. I have been distracted for a few more seconds. So this is how it works. Little by little. I clench my fists as the pain returns. I close my eyes. I hear a crash and I back-hop into reality. No one hurt. Thankyou thankyou thankyou - my mind is irrationally thankful. Jasper has climbed on top of the cage now, and even though he really doesn’t need rescuing, I rescue him again. And then I smile, and then I cry and cry, as hard as I have ever cried.

But the plan keeps on working, even if it’s just seconds at a time. It’s not my brilliant plan, my oh-so-worthless plan, the plan of nothing... Scritch stands up on his back feet, front feet on my leg, looking up at me. I pick him up and hold him for the second time, closing my eyes in a surreal sort of comfort, but he’s got ferret stuff to do. I put him down again, and I wonder if maybe he’s looking for Navi. I cannot keep these thoughts from war-dancing in my head. But he is warm and alive, and he has come to me, unworthy as I might be. I understand and then I don’t understand, and understanding flickers and spirals off until I’m shaken back to reality by the sounds of ferrets and pots and pans.

It is after midnight now, and I am distracting myself by writing this. I am still awake and missing Navi. But while I am missing Navi I am not missing Puff, and when I am missing Puff I am not missing Mocha, and while I am missing Mocha I am not thinking about how stupid and worthless I feel sometimes, and so the plan continues - second by second, one by one, ferret by ferret, until eventually I am no longer the enemy of my own thoughts.

My wife brings out our little girl, Chase. She was born February 13^th, this year. And even though she’s the baby, Dusty has been sucking on her ear and she’s been crying. My wife hands her to me and I put her on my shoulder. She lays there, sleepy, contented. She is so small, just so tiny, and I realize all at once that she is a tiny piece of the plan. I close my eyes. My mind war-dances off again as I feel her little body, warm and breathing, sprawled over my shoulder. And even though I know that one day she will leave us too, I close my eyes and I let myself feel her. And I am so not sorry that she’s here.

Morning Tea & Tsunamis

2005-01-04T04:24:00.001-07:00

My wonderful stainless teapot holds two cups of tea. What a curse it is sometimes. But first...

It’s a crapshoot. Do I go to my computer and read about fuzzies going to the bridge or do I watch the tsunami coverage on CNN? Going to the computer means that I would have to get up. Argh. Not just yet. Tsunami it is.

The weasels are making noises in their cage. They haven’t been let out yet. I would, but I’m stuck on the sofa (which is also my bed most nights). My feet hurt. The TV is still on from the night before, but the sound is down. The weasels are in their cage munching loudly and pawing at the cage door. Dammit, someone’s floating by and I can’t hear it. I grab the remote and turn up the TV. I can no longer hear the weasels over the din of CNN. My wife should be coming by shortly to let them out, hopefully. I need my tea, after all.

My wife brings me my morning tea. She has made me my morning pot of McGrath’s Irish tea as she usually does. I make an obligatory attempt at sitting up, but I’m really just slouching on my pillows. I move the pillows around and slouch a little straighter. I put my cup to my mouth and while I watch Sri Lanka float on by I take a sip of my tea.

Eventually I forget I’m drinking tea. I slug it down so I don’t have to be bothered with holding the cup (I have that all important remote control, you know). Or maybe I put my cup down and forgot about my tea altogether. I watch someone else’s life float on by. Next thing I know my tea’s lukewarm. Bah. So I slug it down cold and pour my second cup from the pot. It’s lukewarm as well. Bah. How did this happen? I don’t have even a remote memory of my first pot of tea, except that I need another one to replace it now.

So I replace it. I’m not going to let that happen again. I struggle to get off the sofa and stumble out to the kitchen to make myself another pot of tea. I sludge back to the couch. What an accomplishment. I’m so proud.

CNN has taken a break from the tsunami to go to the war in Iraq for a bit. My stomach burns as I pour molten tea down into it. I’m not letting the second cup go cold again. This cup, my third already, isn’t exactly the morning treat I had envisioned. It’s more like a job now. I’m going to have a proper pot of tea, by god. I can, you know. My house isn’t floating away and nobody’s shooting at me. I live in the civilized world where they drink hot tea.

Bubbles and Scritch are playing in the beans. I turn up the TV some more so I can hear the bombing of Baghdad over pinto beans in a plastic tub. Navi crawls up on my blanket and says howdy. Jasper, Jaws, and Smokey eventually crawl up the side of the sofa and root around in my blanket for awhile. They play chase with each other on my lap while I sip my tea. More people float on by as CNN goes back to the tsunami.

What a curse it is sometimes. I just can’t sit on my sofa - no TV no computer no outside world - and just drink a cup of tea with myself. I need those dancing electrons to keep myself occupied. I watch my weasels give chase to each other while someone else loses another loan to Ditech. I think that I should get off this sofa, get my digital camera out, and turn my weasels into dancing electrons. You can never have enough dancing electrons, you know.

But I don’t. I go to my computer and read my emails while I drink my third cup of cold tea. More fuzzies going to the bridge. Oh, geez. I sit in my comfy computer chair and sigh. Most of my weasels are healthy at the moment. Even Puff, who is in the middle stages of insulinoma, is doing OK. Out in the living room I hear CNN’s tsunami crashing into something. I don’t know if it’s the tsunami in Sri Lanka or the tsunami in Indonesia making all that noise. And right now I don’t care because it’s drowning out my newest music download. What idiot turned up the TV so loud?

I go out to the living room to turn down the TV. Navi has crawled up on the couch and jumped over to the coffee table. She noses open the lid of my cold teapot. I try to remember if I drank all my tea or not as I rush to the coffee table. I know what’s coming next, but I can’t get there in time. On CNN al-Zarqawi detonates a car bomb. Boom. My stainless-steel teapot hits the floor. Apparently I hadn’t had my second cup. I now have my own personal tsunami. Savages. Navi is lapping the tsunami of tea as fast as her little tongue will go. I don’t need a weasel on caffeine. Honey, do you know where the mop is? Thanks, honey. I appreciate you doing that for me. You bet.

I point the remote at the TV. I go to my computer and my mind drifts away to the sounds of singing electrons. Life is good. One by one, some of the weasels find their own dark places to sleep. CNN is on mute. All is not right with the world, but it’s quieter.

Navi comes up to me to see if I’m still mad. I pick her up. She smells the banana I ate in the kitchen on my hands and she wants some. I put her next to my face. She licks the taste of banana off my lips for a few seconds. I peel another banana. Weasels gather at my feet.

Life is good. Yes. I think that maybe I should make another pot of tea. I could use a good hot cup of tea. I’ve had a hard day.