We found an orphan, we adopted it, we nourished it, we named it and it bit us. It bit us viciously, with all the strength and anger and hope of an infant which could appreciate the nourishment, but still fear the nourishing hand. We learnt to fear the biting teeth. Because Bubbles is a ferret, and daughter named it so, for making bubbles when it drinks.
I wasn't there when Bubbles was found alone in the nest in the hay shelter by husband and daughter, so I couldn't actually understand the details. Whenever I ask, I get two different versions: the nest was high in the pile of bales - the nest was rather low; the nest was an arm deep - the nest was a hand deep. Probably both versions are correct: only the size of the teller is different.
It was January, a hot and dry day. Mother ferret had gone way, abandoning the little one, perhaps too weak to follow her. If Nature had taken its course, the doomed infant would have been just left alone, to provide food to another hungry being, one step up on the food chain. But being in the deepest of our hearts a bunch of softies, we brought it home, we prepared a nest in the traditional shoe box, we dripped milk into its mouth.
Baby ferret was cute and ugly at the same time, often asleep, always hungry. Soon enough it started standing on wobbly legs. That’s when the saucer of milk was brought into service: soon enough the wild thing started lapping noisily, with such eagerness that bubbles started forming into the milk, and remained hanging from its whiskers whenever it raised its little head, like monochromatic mobile Christmas glass-blown decorations.
By now, the shoe box was only a night den, while during the day young Bubbles would start exploring the house, with dire consequences for any bare piece of flesh, not to mention the total lack of toilet training. A solution was found in the spa bath: covered with layers of newspapers, furnished with a doll house and a range of rubber balls, it became a suitable apartment for the little one during the time when none of us was able to entertain it on the lawn or on the carpet. Of course, a playful ferret may be still a hazard, so dutifully we put up a sign on the bathroom door, cryptically saying: “Caution – Bubbles in the spa bath”.
A trip to the vet produced a range of vaccinations and the disquieting notion that it was a female. What were we to do with such a notion? For the time being, we adjusted grammar and concordances, and it became she. So we started noting that meat was her favorite food, and that she was pretty intelligent, as she would interrupt her pottering around whenever she heard the fridge door being opened, run right in front of the fridge, more or less where our feet were, and wait anxiously for the bit of minced meat that would certainly come from the white cathedral of food: so much for being a wild animal! One trait of her wildness was never lost though: any soft tissue, however wrapped in socks or gloves, would be bitten mercilessly, with tiny razor-sharp teeth, perfect for making little holes to hang from, while the unfortunate owner of the soft tissue tried shaking her off.
Husband used to wear leather gloves when handling her. In his best Konrad Lorenz moments, he pockets the beast in his trousers, and carries her around: paws on the sill of the hem for balance, inquisitive muzzle examining the surroundings at each step. As far as prams go, this is a comfy one.
The one person she’s never bitten is daughter. Not sure if it’s puppy sisterhood; more likely it’s self-defense. Daughter has a brand new trampoline, and is determined to become a champion. She has the right physique and a good balance, also great determination. All this translates into lengthy exercise and ever-higher jumps. She dons a pair of leather gloves, gently holds the speechless ferret around her armpits, and up they bounce: two champions in the making.
I wasn't there when Bubbles was found alone in the nest in the hay shelter by husband and daughter, so I couldn't actually understand the details. Whenever I ask, I get two different versions: the nest was high in the pile of bales - the nest was rather low; the nest was an arm deep - the nest was a hand deep. Probably both versions are correct: only the size of the teller is different.
It was January, a hot and dry day. Mother ferret had gone way, abandoning the little one, perhaps too weak to follow her. If Nature had taken its course, the doomed infant would have been just left alone, to provide food to another hungry being, one step up on the food chain. But being in the deepest of our hearts a bunch of softies, we brought it home, we prepared a nest in the traditional shoe box, we dripped milk into its mouth.
Baby ferret was cute and ugly at the same time, often asleep, always hungry. Soon enough it started standing on wobbly legs. That’s when the saucer of milk was brought into service: soon enough the wild thing started lapping noisily, with such eagerness that bubbles started forming into the milk, and remained hanging from its whiskers whenever it raised its little head, like monochromatic mobile Christmas glass-blown decorations.
By now, the shoe box was only a night den, while during the day young Bubbles would start exploring the house, with dire consequences for any bare piece of flesh, not to mention the total lack of toilet training. A solution was found in the spa bath: covered with layers of newspapers, furnished with a doll house and a range of rubber balls, it became a suitable apartment for the little one during the time when none of us was able to entertain it on the lawn or on the carpet. Of course, a playful ferret may be still a hazard, so dutifully we put up a sign on the bathroom door, cryptically saying: “Caution – Bubbles in the spa bath”.
A trip to the vet produced a range of vaccinations and the disquieting notion that it was a female. What were we to do with such a notion? For the time being, we adjusted grammar and concordances, and it became she. So we started noting that meat was her favorite food, and that she was pretty intelligent, as she would interrupt her pottering around whenever she heard the fridge door being opened, run right in front of the fridge, more or less where our feet were, and wait anxiously for the bit of minced meat that would certainly come from the white cathedral of food: so much for being a wild animal! One trait of her wildness was never lost though: any soft tissue, however wrapped in socks or gloves, would be bitten mercilessly, with tiny razor-sharp teeth, perfect for making little holes to hang from, while the unfortunate owner of the soft tissue tried shaking her off.
Husband used to wear leather gloves when handling her. In his best Konrad Lorenz moments, he pockets the beast in his trousers, and carries her around: paws on the sill of the hem for balance, inquisitive muzzle examining the surroundings at each step. As far as prams go, this is a comfy one.
The one person she’s never bitten is daughter. Not sure if it’s puppy sisterhood; more likely it’s self-defense. Daughter has a brand new trampoline, and is determined to become a champion. She has the right physique and a good balance, also great determination. All this translates into lengthy exercise and ever-higher jumps. She dons a pair of leather gloves, gently holds the speechless ferret around her armpits, and up they bounce: two champions in the making.