A change of pace . . .
Missie’s home was a box, a good strong box, two by five feet, and a foot high. Three other white ferrets lived with her. There was a hinged lid on top. The floor was of bird wire, open to the underside. A section was divided off at one end; it was stuffed with clean straw for sleeping. A two-inch hole connected the compartments.
There was a freshwater dish. A corner furthest from the sleeping section were used for business-doing, ferrets being neat critters. The box was mounted on stout legs, bringing it up to waist height, and it stood under a lean-to to shelter it from rain and sun. Right near, was the family chicken coop, where a dozen Leghorns clucked about. Missie liked their cackling and the exciting wafts of bird odor.
Reg Craig and his wife, Jill, took Missie’s three friends out to hunt rabbits. Missie was left at home because she was pregnant with a bunch of babies. Being left alone made her restless.
The back yard also housed a dog pen, and that dog pen was home to four beautiful, black, pedigreed Greyhounds. Reg spent several hours each day training the champion canines. They could win races against any company, but Reg had decided that losing a race now and again was the path to profit, backing a sure winner did little for the pocketbook. Reg needed to put his dough on a dog that would win unexpectedly, a “dark horse,” so to speak. His ruse was to paint a white blaze on one or other of the dogs to manipulate its identity. At home later, he’d remove the blaze. If his scheme of the day called for slowing a dog down, he would feed it a handsome slab of cow flesh just before the race. Dubious business, of course.
Reg swore that his Greyhounds ate a cubic yard of meat every day, an exaggeration for sure, but steak was far too expensive anyway, so Reg thanked God for his ferrets, his willing helpers in obtaining cheap rabbit-meat. Thus pondered Reg as he transferred Missie’s three friends into a carry-box for the day’s rabbit-hunt outing.
Three things of importance had happened that day: Reg unexpectedly asked Jill to go with him on the day’s excursion; Jill had had to hurry to get Missie fed before they left and probably due to haste, Jill hadn’t properly fastened the catch that secured the lid of the family’s ferret box.
Leaving home . . .
Missie wasn’t bent on escaping. Yet she was inordinately curious and couldn’t resist playing about with things to relieve the monotony of being alone. She would push on items to see if they’d move, then she’d shove and nudge, a bit like an athlete constantly flexing muscle. Nosing against the lid, Missie sensed movement, so she kept on shoving and, presto, her head was jammed in the opening. Then, struggle, wriggle, squeeze, and Missie was on her own in the open air.
The leghorns were safe; Reg had done a really sound job building the ferret-proof hen house. He knew that a ferret on the loose, even a gentle looking specimen like Missie, once inside that hen house, could and would attack each and every bird and, in minutes, leave them all bleeding to death from the neck.
So Missie let her insatiable curiosity take over; she followed her nose, and it took her ever so far. Now ferrets like Missie don’t get nervous; nothing frightens them, inquisitiveness reigns. She didn’t expect cats or dogs or snakes to steer clear of her; she’d just wait till she was attacked, then lightning speed and razor-like teeth would come into play. Once the attacker retreated, that was it. She didn’t pursue.
Missie never thought about returning to her shared home. She was comfortable with Reg, her owner, but, to her, all places were alike. While there was something to sniff at, check underneath, climb over or stop and listen to, she kept on moving. As she trotted ever farther from home, she carefully investigated each hen house she came to lest some defect should invite access to the interior. Each time, the resident poultry would cackle, fuss panic and flutter about as the birds sensed danger.
Missie was getting hungry and tired when, suddenly, she came to a hen house that invited her in; the door hung open! How could that be? Well, this was the time of year when hens quit laying eggs and their owners, seeing no return on the cost of feed, get rid of them. Mostly, they’d kill and dress every last hen then pack them in the freezer. Or they’d distribute the dressed carcasses to folk around the neighborhood. Either way, all that was left for Missie was the tantalizing smell of bird. Eating would have to wait.
Now, 20 feet from that hen house, stood a tidy wood pile. Eight-foot-long logs had been stood on end, each mutually supporting the others, and the whole making a teepee-like structure. Into a gap between logs crept bone weary Missie, seeking a safe sleeping nest in the interior of that wood pile as the sun rose over the horizon to usher in a new day. Hunger didn’t keep Missie awake, but she might have liked to know that a young early riser had seen her disappearing into the log pile.
To be continued . . .