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This, That, and an Excerpt from Rulebreaker
I love getting feedback. Between the blog and Twitter, I’ve received great responses to what to blog about next. The bread stealing bear drew the most interest, so I’ll tell you about him (or her, I don’t know. I didn’t get *that* close). After a conversation with my mother about holidays, I have more blog fodder. And finally, an excerpt from Rulebreaker.
BREAD BEAR
My husband did our quarterly Big Shopping while in Anchorage the other week. He fills the pickup with groceries to stock our pantry, freezer and refrigerator so we don’t have to buy a whole lot locally (love the local guys, but it’s pricey here). This time, he went a little overboard and we didn’t have room for some things in the house or in the outdoor freezer. Some loaves of bread and bagels were left in a cooler near our front porch.
Well, our new “neighbor” caught wind of this. The other morning, about 8 am, we heard a thumping near the front door. Husband turned on the porch light (it’s still kinda of dark at 8 am) a caught a glimpse of a young bear running off with a grocery bag of bread products. “Darn,” said husband. “I wanted French Toast.”
Ah well, such is life. We’d secured our garbage, but had no safe place to put the bread. No big loss. But then, unbeknownst to me at the time, Husband put a frozen gallon of milk in the same cooler. And left it outside to thaw slowly. That night, about 11 pm (definitely dark out) there was more thumping. Husband was asleep. I got up, went to the door and turned on the porch light. Lo and behold, the cooler was knocked over, a gallon of milk was bleeding out on my front walk, and I got to see a furry bear butt scuttle off into the night.
Damn it! Milk is expensive. Broom in hand, in case he returned, I grabbed the milk to let it finish thawing in the sink. There was no saving it, considering the sizable bite mark, but I didn’t want it out there encouraging a return visit either.
So, lesson learned. Hopefully Husband will remember this incident next time he gets his shopping groove on.
Oh, here’s an earlier post about our previous neighbor: Bear With Me
MOM’S FAVORITE HOLIDAY
I speak with my mom every couple of weeks or so. She lives back East, where I grew up, and takes the train into NYC from her Long Island home for work. Yesterday’s conversation led to a discussion of her favorite holiday. She told me she didn’t have to go to work today (October 10) because it was Columbus Day and everything was shut down.
“I love this holiday,” she said. “There’s no pressure, no reason to make a big meal or organize meeting with the family. You don’t have to go to church or feel particularly patriotic. It’s perfect.”
Happy Columbus Day, Mom.
And to all my Canadian friends, Happy Thanksgiving!
FROM : CHAPTER ONE
One of the three masked men raised his rifle and shot a short burst of energy pulses into the ceiling of the First Colonial Bank of Nevarro. Fft-fft-fft-fft-fft. Plaster hit the wood floor in a staccato patter louder than the shots themselves. Ozone, dust and cries of alarm filled the air.
The shooter swung the muzzle toward me. “I said, heads down, lady.”
Gut tight, I complied, imitating the others who had been caught inside the bank when the black-clad men had entered just before closing time. It wasn’t often that I stared into the dark, deadly hole of a weapon. I don’t recommend it as a regular activity.
“Everyone stay down and stay quiet,” he ordered. “We’ll be outta here in two minutes, and y’all can go home alive.”
One of the men in black escorted the teller and the manager to the back of the bank where the vault was. The guard, an elderly couple, my partner Calvin and I lay on our bellies, hands on the backs of our heads and cheeks to the rough wood. The elderly couple had come in to check on their savings.
Cal and I had come in to rob the place ourselves.
Despite the pulse pistol nestled under my clothes against the small of my back, and Cal’s gun tucked in a holster covered by his right pant leg, neither of us was inclined to play hero.
Cal turned his head away from the shooter to glare at me. “Only you, Liv,” he whispered fiercely, “would pick the exact same day to rob a bank as real criminals.”
Real criminals? I opened my mouth to loudly voice my indignation but snapped it shut. I’d already drawn enough attention to myself. Instead, I returned his harsh whisper. “We are real criminals. This is just poor timing.”
Cal and I had been planning this job for a while. The Exeter Mining Company deposited its employees’ pay during an undisclosed period each month to avoid such actions as, say, robbery. But Cal had finagled the schedule and amounts from a friend. Seventy-five thousand in cold, hard cash had been delivered to this bank in Milchner the day before. Many small-op contract miners preferred hard money to electronic transfer—fewer slipped digits and short changings to worry about.
We chose this branch because it was the most remote, the least secure and had the fewest personnel. Despite its lower take than a branch in one of the larger cities, like Pembroke, it was the perfect hit.
Apparently the competition thought so too.
“We should have done this sooner,” Cal grumbled.
“It’s not my fault my car died,” I said.
This had not been one of my luckier days, or months, or years for that matter. The job was supposed to go down last month, but fast transportation was a must. Cal only had access to a slower model Airvan. A week before the original hit date, the lifters on my somewhat newer, sleeker and more sensitive light air car went offline. Part of this take was earmarked to pay that bill. Damn the void.
And while PubTrans was an efficient mode for us working-class folks of Pembroke City, it was not the ideal getaway system. Besides, PubTrans didn’t run to way-the-hell-out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere towns like Milchner.
Before Cal could remind me we’d had ample opportunity in prior months, the black barrel of the second gunman’s rifle tapped down on his temple. Cal’s eyes widened. The breath caught in my chest.
My gaze traveled along the length of the rifle, hesitated where a gloved finger rested on the trigger, then up to the man’s face. I assumed it was a man; he looked tall and broad from my view from the floor.
Like the other two thieves, this one wore dark glasses and a garish cloth to mask his features. The hood of his black jacket covered his head. There would be no facial recognition program to help catch these guys even if this bank had decent video, which it didn’t. Yet another reason Cal and I had targeted it.
Black lenses reflected twin images of my prone body. The man raised his index finger and placed it against his mouth. Quiet.
I nodded, getting a splinter from the floor jabbed into my cheek for my troubles. The gunman moved away.
My stomach did a flip. I closed my eyes, trying not to puke as bile bit at the back of my throat. So this was what it felt like to be utterly helpless, to have complete strangers decide if you lived or died. The fear. The uncertainty. The praying they would just do their thing and go away without hurting anyone.
Somewhere behind me, the old lady began to sob quietly. Her husband made soft shushing noises, his voice shaky. I hoped the gunmen wouldn’t notice.
Forget about them, Liv, my brain ordered. You’ve got your own ass to keep alive. Right. Felon’s Rule Number One: Don’t get emotionally involved. I forced professional curiosity to replace victimization—the old couple’s and my own. I opened my eyes and took in as much of the scene as I could without lifting my head. Shooter at the door. Second gunman? Out of my line of sight for the moment.
What was the third man doing with the manager and teller? You only needed one or the other to open the vault. The money sat right there in its happy little lockboxes, which also required only one key. Why risk having to deal with two employees? These guys had a different technique than from mine and Cal’s, but now was not the time to open a discussion.
“Liv,” Cal whispered through unmoving lips. His dark eyes watched something behind me.
The soft scrape of a boot. The gunman had returned. I didn’t dare turn toward him. Cool, ion-hardened ceramic touched the back of my hands. I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on Cal.
The gunman didn’t speak. His palm skimmed the length of my leather jacket from shoulder to just above my buttocks. He pressed down, jabbing my pistol into my spine, then moved the tails of the jacket and shirt aside, exposing the waist of my trousers. And the gun. Like he knew it would be there.
My gut quivered. Shit! If he took me for a lawman, I was dead.
“Tsk tsk tsk,” he whispered close to my ear. He eased the gun out, resting it on the bared skin of my back. His gloved fingers slid under my trousers. My muscles stiffened when he tickled my tailbone just below the waistband of my bikini panties. “Got anything else there?”
His hand trailed back up to my gun, and its weight disappeared. The barrel of his rifle nudged the back of my hands. “You’re quite lucky today, amante. Quite lucky.”
Amante. Lover.
Only one person used that word with me, and he’d lost the privilege three years ago.
Tonio Calderon.
Over the indignation and disbelief buzzing in my head, activity from near the vault told me the job was done.
The bastard leaned closer. His breath warmed my ear. “Gotta go, darlin’.”
He dragged a finger up my spine then was gone.
My body shivered in memory of his touch while my mind screamed. No! No no no, double damn the void, NO! This went beyond poor timing.
My ex-husband had just felt me up, taken my gun and spoiled my hit.
* * *
“Here’s your water, Miss Braxton.” Sheriff Nathan Sterling set the heavy glass tumbler in front of me and resumed his seat on the other side of the table. He wasn’t particularly tall, only a dozen centis over my 167. But his dark uniform with its shiny badge, his broad shoulders and erect posture made him seem bigger.
“Thank you,” I said and took a sip of tepid water.
We sat in the windowless, overheated interview room of the Milchner sheriff’s station. Like most of Milchner—and Nevarro, for that matter—the room and the station had seen better days. Peeling paint and rickety furniture proclaimed the sheriff department’s lack of budget.
Sterling shuffled through a few sheets of synth paper on the table. Paper. I swallowed a chuckle with another sip. No handhelds in sight, and the bulky System Interface terminals in the main office were about a decade behind the rest of civilization. How did they chase down criminals? With a posse on horseback? Just as long as they didn’t go in for lynching, I’d be fine.
A thin scar running across his forehead blended with frown lines as he read my statement. “You went into the bank to withdraw some cash.” His blue eyes met mine. “Your ID says you’re from Pembroke. What’s your business in our little burg?”
Cal and I had worked out details well beforehand. “My friend and I were taking a weekend trip. We needed a room.”
That was a lie, but the fleabag hotel we’d scoped out only took hard money, not credit vouchers or weepy promises. Though the guy behind the desk was scary enough that he probably would’ve taken a kidney or small child as payment. The trade in both was rampant on some worlds.
Sterling quirked a dark blond brow at me. “You were gonna stay at the Milchner Arms?”
I gave him a weary smile. “It’s the only hotel in town. We’re tired and poor.”
This part was true, hence our plan to rob the bank.
He held my gaze for a moment. As he stared, his right eye drifted, shifting its focus to the wall. Artificial organ. And a cheap one at that, if it couldn’t hold position. If the Milchner constabulary couldn’t afford decent furniture, why was I surprised its sheriff received second-rate eye replacement?
The sheriff rubbed the corner of his eye, setting it back into place before nodding. “All right. Tell me what happened.”
Despite the fact he had my full statement right in front of his baby blues—at least the colors matched—the lawman wanted to see if there were any discrepancies in my story. To see if I’d left out any details of the robbery, which I hadn’t. Or was lying about anything, which I was, but he’d never know it. Lawmen were suspicious types; “trust no one” was their mantra. I could relate.
I cleared my throat. “Cal and I had come in to get some cash. It was getting late, and the bank was about to close.” Classic time for a hit. The robbers knew it. Sterling probably knew it. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit I knew it. “Before we got up to the teller’s cage, these three guys in black burst in, hit the guard and pointed guns at us. They told us to lay on the floor, and we did.”
My hands clenched on the table. Sterling probably thought it was a reaction to the frightening situation I’d been through. Actually it was from being torqued that our plans had been thwarted. Again. The idea of switching careers had crossed my mind more than once since this afternoon.
“What about the teller and the manager?” he asked.
“One of the men yelled to them to come out from behind the cage. I guess they did. I couldn’t see them, but I heard movement when the gunman told them to hurry up.”
The reason the robbers needed both people still niggled at the back of my brain.
He tapped on the table and rested his other hand against his face, two fingers pressed against the corner of his right eye. “One of the other witnesses says you were approached by a gunman. Want to tell me about that?”
I shifted on the wooden chair. “It’s in my statement.” Mostly.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it out loud, Miss Braxton.”
Like the distraught victim I was supposed to be, I dropped my gaze to my hands encircling the tumbler and waited for him to prompt me again. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I realize this is difficult for you,” he said in the lawman tone of sympathetic interrogation, “but we need your help if we’re gonna catch these guys.”
That brought my eyes up to his. “Do you think you will?”
I hoped I sounded more like a justice-seeking victim than a vengeful ex. But oh, to have Tonio and his new little gang tossed into a Colonial Correctional Mine for a dozen or so years would make my year. Teach the bastards for messing up my hit.
“I can’t make any guarantees, but every little bit helps.” Sterling’s earnest desire to see the bad guys put away was admirable. He actually seemed competent, an unusual trait in backwater lawmen. Though I’d rather have been the one to make the hit, I was glad it wasn’t me he sought.
“All right.” I took another sip of water. “We were all lying on the floor. I said something to Cal about how scared I was. One of the men stuck his gun against Cal’s head.” I swallowed hard, remembering the look in Cal’s eyes when he felt the barrel.
Sheriff Sterling asked, “Did he say anything?”
I shook my head. “No. He just raised his finger to his lips.” I demonstrated. “Then he left us alone.”
“But he came back to you. Touched you.”
Renewed indignation seared my cheeks. “Yes,” I whispered. “He put his gun to my head.” I’d never forgive Tonio for that little bit of theatrics.
Sterling leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “Mr. Crosby, the elderly gentleman, said the gunman crouched down beside you. What did he do?”
Took my gun and copped a feel. But the first part wasn’t in any statement and never would be. My pulse pistol wasn’t exactly legal. Between its scatter coat to deflect security detection and not being registered, merely possessing it was an automatic five years in the CCM.
“He ran his hand along my back and—” I let my voice break appropriately, “—and m-my backside.”
Phantom fingers sent tingles up my spine. Damn Tonio for having that effect on me after three years!
The sheriff’s jaw clenched and cold fire glinted in his eyes. “Slag mucker,” he muttered. Apparently, taking advantage of a woman while holding a gun on her was one of his pet peeves. “Did he say anything?”
“Just that he was s-sorry they didn’t have more time.” I let my gaze drop again. Total lie, but it made Tonio look that much worse to Sterling, which made me feel somewhat better.
“Anything else?” he asked. I shook my head, too “distraught” to look him in the eye. “Do you think you could recognize him? His voice?”
Sure I could, Sheriff, because he’s my ex-husband. I haven’t seen or heard from him in three years, but I clearly recall his voice, his touch.
And when I help you nab him, Tonio will be happy to tell you all about how he knew me. How we’d hit banks, mercantiles and jewelry stores from Weaver to Hawkins’ Rock before landing here on Nevarro.
I shook my head again, hard enough to rattle thoughts of vengeance out and some sense back in. “No, I don’t think so.”
Sterling’s eyes locked on mine again. “I know you’re scared, Olivia.”
Uh-oh. Lawmen used your given name to make you feel like they were your friend. Had I been nothing more than a victim of groping and robbery, I would have felt safe and secure knowing Sheriff Nathan Sterling was my pal. But with a friend like him, I’d get a quick ride to the CCM myself if I wasn’t careful.
“These men will keep on with their thieving,” he continued. “They’ll keep terrorizing old people and assaulting young women like yourself.”
Sympathy with a side of guilt. He was good.
Hands clenched, I dug a fingernail into my palm and let tears flow. “I know he’d have hurt me if he could, but I don’t think I’ll be of any help, Sheriff.” I hung my head. A soft sob escape my throat and I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Sterling laid one of his red, chapped hands over mine. I wondered if it was real or another replacement part. “It’s all right. Thanks for your help.” He stood up , the scrape of the chair covering my sniffles. “I’ll get in touch with you in Pembroke if I have any more questions. Will you be heading back there tonight?”
I looked up at him and wiped away my crocodile tears. “Yes. It’s a long ride, but Cal and I decided we just want to go home.” I stood, offering a wan smile. “Thank you, Sheriff. I hope you catch those men.”
I did and I didn’t, but I had to mouth the appropriate words.
Sterling nodded then held the door open for me. Cal waited on a bench in the hall. The older couple had been interviewed before us and was nowhere to be seen. My partner stood but didn’t approach.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said turning back to the sheriff, “how much did the robbers get?”
He gave me a hard look for about a second before his features softened. “Don’t know. They didn’t take the cash sitting right there. They took the contents of some safe deposit boxes.”
That explained the need for both the manager and the teller.
It took every gram of willpower for me to merely nod and walk away. The bastards messed up our hit and didn’t take the cash? Worse, there must have been something more valuable in those safe deposit boxes. Something Cal and I had no idea about. Now I felt inept as well as pathetic.
I was going to kill Tonio if I saw him again.
**********
Rulebreaker is available at Carina Press, Amazon, B&N, and other fine ebook retailers : )
**********
Legal stuff:
The bear image was originally posted to Flickr by HBarrison at http://flickr.com/photos/10299779@N03/2874265346 . Thanks for letting me share!
Rulebreaker text and cover is copyrighted by me ahd Harlequin Enterprises, respectively. Please DON’T share without permission.
Holly
Recently, I wrote about our dog, Holly, her losing a leg to cancer, and her amazing ability to bounce back and get on with life as if nothing was amiss. She was her happy self, smiling, I swear, as she bound across the yard or played mama to a friend’s high-energy pup. Unfortunately, things took a bad turn, as these things tend to do.
Less than a week ago, Holly began having trouble standing. She could do it, but you could see there was something going on. Then she had trouble with the three stairs leading up to our house. Within days, she couldn’t walk, couldn’t even stand on her own.
My husband had to leave on a research cruise–out of town and out of reliable communication range. I was on my own. We’d discussed the inevitable, but our vet was in his other location, and there was no one else in town to turn to when the time came. I prayed Holly could hold on until Hubby got back.
Then it got to the point where I had to lift Holly to bring her outside and stand there holding her up, encouraging her to relieve herself. Her brown eyes asked why I was encroaching on her “private business” yet she seemed grateful for my touch and support. I’d haul her back inside, lay her down on her bedding and we’d collapse, both of us exhausted and frustrated and unhappy. So unhappy. She deserved more than relying on me to get her outside. She deserved to be freed from the pain that made her shake and whimper, even when lying still.
I called my husband yesterday morning, Friday, leaving a message that Holly was in very bad shape, that the vet wasn’t available, that no one was, that I was at a loss for what to do. I had kids and other animals to tend. How was I supposed to give our furry friend a peaceful end to her pain?
I headed into work on the verge of tears, holding it together for my kids. They saw the difficulty Holly was having, and the stress of taking care of her was taking its toll on me as I got short with them. I apologized frequently for my behavior, but I’m not sure it helped.
Friday afternoon, I was done with work and about to go home when one of the office ladies handed me a phone message. One of Hubby’s coworkers had called regarding the dog. I realized Hubby must have called or emailed her and explained the situation, asked for help when I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
At home, I returned the call and spoke to Nancy. Her take-charge attitude and soft voice assured me that there were people to help. That she and her husband could take Holly to Valdez if I wanted. That if I went, Penny and Linee would stay with the girls so they wouldn’t have to go with me or be alone for the day. The ferry schedule was tight, however, arriving at Valdez at 11:45 then returning to Cordova at 1:15. Not a lot of time, but enough if weather didn’t hamper the voyage.
Knowing it was what I had to do, I called the vet in Valdez and explained the situation. He wasn’t normally open on Saturdays, but would come in under the circumstances. I called the ferry terminal here. They assured me that I would have time to run into town at Valdez, take care of Holly, then make it back onto the ferry for the return trip. The crew would be made aware of my situation and I wouldn’t miss the boat.
It was settled. I looked into Holly’s brown eyes and cried. In my head, I knew this was the best thing for her. In my heart, I knew it was unfair to put her through so much but it hurt, oh it hurt, to think about losing her. When the kids came home from school, we sat on the floor near Holly and I told them what we had to do. We cried. We told stories about getting her and her “Goomba sister” Bailey when the girls were little. How Holly used to jump the five foot fence that surrounded our house in Oregon. How Bailey, much skinnier then, used to follow and we’d chase the dogs through the neighborhood. We laughed and remembered. And we knew we’d never, ever forget.
Last night, we all slept on the living room floor beside Holly. I gave her an extra dose of pain meds to help her rest, knowing the side effects were moot. This morning, Penny came over to help load Holly into the car and stay with the girls for a little while until Linee and her son could keep them company. We all cried again and the girls said their good-byes.
I checked in at the ferry terminal and was once again assured the captain and crew knew what was happening. Monica, the clerk, handed me a little dog treat. “I know how tough this is.” She’s lived her for a while. I’m sure she knew exactly what I was going through, as did all of the wonderful folks who jumped in to help us.
The ferry ride was uneventful. Hubby called to make sure the boat had sailed because the weather had been iffy. He would be out of range again until Sunday and we’d talk again then.
At the Valdez terminal, I was met by a woman named Donna who has worked with Nancy and my husband. She got in my car and showed me how to get to the vet’s office. Valdez isn’t a large town, but it was great to have someone there to lean on.
The vet, Kelly, pulled up just as we did. He carried Holly inside and gently laid her on the floor. We chatted a bit then I filled out some required paperwork. He went into the back and returned with a syringe of yellow liquid. The sedative would relax Holly prior to administration of the drug that would actually stop her heart. I could stay until the very end or leave after the sedative took effect, whatever I felt more comfortable with. I wasn’t sure, and time was an unfortunate factor. He assured me she would feel nothing once the sedative kicked in.
He gave her the shot and Holly laid her head down as I stroked her soft ears. Her eyes were wide open and she looked around at the strange surroundings. I spoke to her, cried some more, told the vet and Donna about some of her antics. After ten minutes, she was still more interested in the clinic than closing her eyes. Not reluctant, just curious about where she was and these two new people—her new friends, because everyone was Holly’s friend. The vet gave her a second shot. Within minutes, her eyes closed and her breathing became regular. No longer quivering or whimpering with pain, no longer looking at me with confusion and frustration in her soft brown eyes. I cried on her big rottie head and whispered my good-byes. “Good puppy.”
I couldn’t bring myself to watch Kelly give her that final injection, the one that would stop Holly’s heart. I wanted to remember her in a peaceful sleep, perhaps dreaming of chasing squirrels or licking the girls’ faces.
Donna, also crying, walked outside with me and we returned to the ferry terminal. She drove and waited with me until it was time to load. Here was a woman I’d never met before, who knew my husband just a little, but was willing to go through almost as much emotional stress because of the commonality of our love for our animals. We said good-bye and I told Donna she and her husband had to visit us under more cheerful circumstances. I hope she takes me up on it.
I’m so grateful to all the people who got us through this difficult time, friends old and new, people I’d never met, who made Holly’s passing a little easier.
Returning home with Holly’s collar on the seat beside me, I was exhausted. Only one dog greeted me when I walked in the door. Bailey seemed confused, and looked past me. Where was her sister? I gave her a hug and cried some more.
It’ll be strange not to wake up to Holly’s smiling face or pat her big head when I come home. It’ll seem odd to call only one dog in. I’m sure I’ll call Bailey the wrong name now and again and feel the pang of loss. My girls or I will tear up, and we’ll all hug and sob then remember some funny thing about Holly and feel a little better.
Not much compares to the love and memories generated by our relationships with animals, and despite the pain of losing them we seem compelled to have them in our lives. We gave Holly the best life we could and a peaceful passing. I know she’s somewhere in doggie heaven, smiling, four legs flying as she chases a forest full of squirrels.
Good puppy.
This and That
School starts in just over a week. I’m much happier about it than the kids, though they are anxious to be able to do something other than chores.
BF Sharron arrives Saturday for what’s going to be an all too brief visit. We will hike around, go see the glacier, and attend the Fish Prom. Details regarding that later.
Holly is doing well. Finishes with her meds today. I’m trying to get in touch with her regular vet, who has another office in another part of the state, but no luck so far. Hopefully he’ll swing by our town soon. It’s still a bit weird to see her with only three legs, but she doesn’t seem bothered.
Diligently working on revisions of Bad Girl. Patiently waiting CPs’ notes so I can resubmit.
Critting some chapters for Melanie. Will get them to you soon!
Mulling the continuation of the current WIP and how to tackle a serious plot hole in a different story. I mean, Mack truck-sized plot hole. Got the characters, got the setting. Logical plot? Not so much. Perhaps it’s time to jettison that line of thought and go elsewhere with it.
That’s what I’m up to. You?
Dog Days of Summer
Before we left on our trip, one of our dogs, Holly, had been limping about. By the time we returned, Hubby told me she was getting worse and hardly using the bum leg at all. We needed to get her to a vet. Our regular vet wasn’t in town, as is his routine this time of year, but I called him and asked for a recommendation in Anchorage. After a few more phone calls, we had an appointment and reservations on the ferry. While in the Big City, we’d do some back-to-school shopping, maybe even take in a movie or two. With Hubby staying home to work and care for the other critters, I packed the kids and dog last Monday and off we went.
We had no idea what was wrong with the dog, figuring she’s tweaked something in the leg and it was healing poorly. There was a ridge along the upper part of her leg that felt, to me, like her shoulder blade was off kilter. But not being a vet, I let the professional make the diagnosis. And what a diagnosis it was. Within 30 seconds of hearing her symptoms and running his hands along both forelimbs, he stated he was 99% sure she had a bone tumor that was more than likely malignant. Blood work and x-rays would confirm that and tell us if the cancer had spread. If it had, Holly would have another 2 to 3 months with us. If it hadn’t spread, amputation would be the way to go. With that and chemo she would probably have another year or so.
Holly is, perhaps, one of the best dogs I’ve ever had. She is one of the two dogs our girls have grown up with and truly bonded to, even though my husband and I had two other dogs when they were little. The idea of losing her to such an insidious disease made me sad and angry. It was no one’s fault, of course, certain breeds are prone to this sort of thing, but I didn’t want MY dog to have to go through it.
I cried as I explained the situation to my girls. Then we were all crying. We waited for the results in the reception area of the clinic, where a very kind tech offered us chocolate. They certainly understand their patients and the families. Never in my life had I prayed that I’d want to amputate an animal’s leg, but that’s what I did that afternoon. Because if the cancer had metastasized, even amputation would have been useless. We would have had to either put her down then and there or deal with her disease and make her as comfortable as possible for the next couple of months so she could die at home with all of her family around her.
Soon enough, the vet came out with x-rays. Heart in my throat, I had the girls wait in reception while I followed the doctor into an exam room to view the films. The tumor surrounded her upper humerus, making it twice as thick as a normal bone. You could almost see the malignancy pulsing from it. Who knew how long it had been growing there. I held my breath as the doctor slid the film of her chest into the viewer. No nodules or masses. Her lungs and chest appeared clean. That didn’t mean the cancer wasn’t in her system, but for the moment it wasn’t present. Taking Holly’s leg would be a good start to keeping her with us a bit longer and out of pain. And that’s what we wanted most of all, to get rid of her pain.
Surgery was scheduled for the following day. We did a little shopping while we waited for the phone call to tell us she was done. I offered to take the kids to a movie, but no one’s heart was in it. How could we enjoy ourselves when our best friend was in surgery? So we picked up a few things for school and home, wandered the mall, waited for the phone to ring. Soon enough, the vet called to say the surgery had gone well, that Holly was starting to come around. We could come pick her up and transport her to another clinic where there was a doctor and techs on site 24 hours a day. They would keep an eye on Holly over night.
When we returned to the clinic, Holly was brought out on a stretcher. She was still very out of it, though her eyes were half open, and her front left quarter was shaved and covered in gauzy bandage. The sight of my big, robust rottweiler-retriever laid out on a stretcher and missing a limb was tough to see, but not as tough as if we would have lost her. The techs brought her to our waiting minivan and we transported her to the other clinic. The folks there assured us that they’d call if anything happened, and that we were welcome to call any time, even late at night, if we wanted.
Even with that assurance, the girls and I were still in no mood to do anything but head back to the house (we were staying at my step-father-in-law’s) and decompress. We did call that evening after dinner and told Holly was doing well. She had almost completely come out of the anesthesia and was sleeping normally. The next morning we called again. The tech and doctor were happy with how things went the night before and we were free to come pick up Holly whenever we wanted.
At the clinic, Holly wasn’t too keen on the linoleum floor and was still a bit wobbly from the pain meds, but with help she made it out to the car. Once back at the house, she laid down outside for a bit before regaining the energy to hobble inside. For the next couple of days, we enticed Holly outside with treats and verbal encouragement. Each day she grows stronger and more sure of herself on three legs.
Back home now, after a ferry ride that ended with a scratched open incision and the donning of the shirt and sock of shame, Holly is getting on well. Though the pain she is going through with her recovery is pretty high, I think she realizes this is a different pain. A better pain, if that’s possible, knowing it’s short-lived. After she’s through her current pain meds and antibiotic, we’ll discuss options with the vet. Chemo may be in her future, depending on circumstances. But no matter what medical situation we may find ourselves in, this family is quite happy to still have its best friend around, no matter how many legs she has.
Holly wearing the tee shirt and sock of shame:
Bear with Me
One of our neighbors is becoming annoying. No, not in a playing his music too loud or letting his dog poo in our yard sense. He (or she?) is rattling our empty garbage cans at night and getting into things in the open bed of a pick up truck.
Yes, our formerly polite black bear is acting like, well, a bear.
When we first moved to this little coastal town in south central Alaska, we knew there were more bears than moose around, completely opposite from our previous location. Both critters can be dangerous, especially when your dopey dog runs up to full grown mama moose and barks in her bulbous nose. Not smart, dog, not smart at all. Both are given space and respect (as much as we can with said dopey dog, at any rate).
We quickly learned there was a neighborhood bear, but never saw much of the bruin. He (we’ll stick with the patriarchal pronoun for now) left piles of berry-seeded poo along the narrow strip of grass that separates our house from a swath of brush and the slope down to a creek. While picking salmon berries (no, they don’t taste like fish), my husband saw his brown nose peek out from some bushes. A stern, “Go away, bear” was enough to scare him off. Our cat was never chased. Our garbage cans were never so much as turned over, let alone debris strewn across the yard.
But things have changed.
Two weeks ago, I was settling down for the night when I heard thumping outside–the telltale sound of a plastic garbage can being abused. Shoot. I knew it wasn’t a neighbor’s dog. Taking up the heavy flashlight from the kitchen counter, I went to the front door and flipped on the porch light. Grateful we, like most Alaskans, have an arctic entry (an area for coats and boots that separates the house proper from the outdoors), I was able to keep the dogs in while I poked my head out the outer door. I could hear the bear bumping into things, and since garbage had been collected that day I knew he wasn’t making a huge mess. But due to the monster piles of wood dear husband had stacked for the winter soon to come, I couldn’t see anything.
“Go away, bear,” I said in my gruffest “dad” voice. The thumping stopped. “Go on, get out of here.”
I listened and waited, the half-glass outer door between me and the bear and flashlight in hand (why I had it, I don’t know. It’s not like I was going to go out there. But its weight felt good in my hand.). After a few moments of no sound, I figured the bear moved away from the house, back up into the brush. Just as I was about to go back in, he lumbered from behind the tall stack of wood into the light. My heart stopped for a second or two then thudded hard in my chest.
“That is one big freakin’ bear,” my brain informed me. Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, brain.
Maybe 200 pounds, he strolled past the porch and glanced up at me behind the laughable protection of the half-glass door. My heavy duty, 2″ diameter, foot long Mag-Lite suddenly seemed like a tube of tin foil. Not that I would have gotten close enough to hit him with it. Not intentionally, anyway. He kept walking and disappeared into the shadows.
The next morning, I warned the kids about our night visitor and made sure the coast was clear before letting the dogs out at night. All had been quiet for the past couple of weeks, except for the distinct whiff of musk the other evening that told us he was still making his rounds. But nothing destructive.
Until last night.
Hubby returned from a week of meetings and shopping in Anchorage at 1 am. He left the groceries and things he purchased in the back of the new, open bed pick up truck he’d transported back via ferry. (The truck is for the science center where he works, the groceries are ours and a co-worker’s.) He had some totes of freezer/refrigerator items, including coffee creamer, butter, cheese and meats, that he left outside rather than put away after a long day. It was cool enough to keep things fresh. Along with that, our pal Penny had purchased three dozen tamales from Taco Loco, a restaurant in Anchorage that she absolutely loves. Hubby transported them back with our stuff so we could store them for her, as Penny was staying in Anchorage for a few more days.
This morning, Hubby let the dogs out and discovered our bear had been back. Despite the presence of approximately 30 pounds of meat and other fat-rich goodies, the bear went for the enticing scent of tamales. And really, who can blame him? He pulled the tarp off the tote, chewed a couple of holes in the plastic, tossed the lid and went to work. Of the three dozen tamales, packaged in a tin foil covered pan, 21 survived. As long as Penny doesn’t mind paw prints on her corn husks, they should still be fine.
Living with wildlife is never boring, but the past few weeks have seen a marked increase in the excitement level around here. In the scheme of things, the loss of a dozen tamales isn’t bad (though Penny might not feel that way). We’ll be temporarily free from our furry neighbor’s antics once he goes into hibernation for the winter. For now, we’ll keep the garbage shut in the shed until pick up day, especially if we have Mexican for dinner.
Olé.
Whale Tale–Why I Love Where I Live
This past Saturday evening, I received a phone call at about 9pm from a friend. In a nutshell, Suzanna said, “We’re going out on Dave’s boat to see some whales tomorrow. There’s room for one more.”
I balked, not at the idea of going on a boat–I love being on boats–or at the idea of seeing cool critters, but at the 6am sail time (on a Sunday!) and the 8pm return. That’s a long day, and with only room for one, I felt a bit guilty. DH was going to have to stay home with the kids, but he had to prepare for an early departure Monday morning anyway. Suzanna was a persistent saleswoman, and in the end I agreed to sacrifice sleep for a little adventure. I’m so glad I did. (Sorry, kids. Next time we’ll go as a family.)
Resetting my alarm to 5am (on a Sunday!), I hardly slept and was out of bed by 4:45 (on a Sunday!). My oldest stumbled out of her room just as I was fixing a cup of tea. “Go back to sleep,” I told her. “I’ll be back later. Dad will explain.” I kissed her sleepy bed-head and sent her to her room.
Dressed in layers, prepared for ever-changing Alaska weather, and toting my camera, binoculars and travel mug, I was the first passenger to arrive at the boat. Dave, the captain, runs tourist charters and provides transport for the local scientists/state agencies. He’s a great guy and knows just about everything there is to know about Prince William Sound. Milo and his wife Paula are a very nice couple I’ve met at several gatherings. He’s a biologist/photographer for the US Forest Service, I think, and she’s a librarian. Kristin is head of a local organization that monitors the massive watershed system here. Mary Ann is a biologist at the Science Center where my husband works. She had her 10 year old daughter with her for this trip. And Suzanna is the Public Health nurse in town. Good folks to spend a day with.
It took almost 3 hours to reach the bay where the humpback whales hung out. There wasn’t much to see during transit–I’m sure the scenery would have been great, but it was dark until 8:45–so we chatted and drank coffee or tea. The boat was clean, comfortable and warm, the seas flat calm. Upon arrival, we donned our coats and hats and gathered our cameras and binoculars to go on deck. For South Central Alaska in December, it was an amazing day. No wind and only a bit of rain. The bay is long, very deep (500 feet for the most part, which accommodated the whales nicely) and somewhat narrow, surrounded by snow-covered mountains. Clouds kept the sun from reflecting too brightly off the water, but that would be to our advantage when we began taking pictures.
Almost immediately, whale spouts were seen and heard in singles and in groups of two or three or four. Some as close as fifty yards or so. All around us were massive humpback whales, slipping along the surface or gliding below the boat. Mothers and calves, pairs, groups and singles. Stubby dorsal fins and knobby heads and backs broke the calm waters. An occasional pectoral fin, with its telltale white underside flashed in the grey light. As the sun rose higher, the whales appeared bronze in color against the black-green water. We didn’t know where to look at any one time. Just once, we saw one breach, rising almost a full body length out of the water before splashing back down. No one got a picture of it, but we’ll remember it for a long, long time.
No matter which direction you chose, you were sure to receive the gift of observing one of the most majestic creatures on earth. We were also fortunate to see a variety of birds, harbor seals “basking” on an ice sheet, and curious sea lions (who wandered up to the boat AFTER my camera battery died). My descriptions here don’t do the trip justice, nor do the pics. Trust me, it was amazing.
We spent hours puttering up into the bay, idling and enjoying the scenery or watching the whales and other animals. Time after time, I was struck by the unbelievable beauty around us. There are still some wild places in this world, and I was never so grateful as then to be able to experience it. Thank you, Dave, for an amazing tour. Thank you, Suzanna for not taking “no” for an answer. Thank you, Milo, Paula, Kristin, Mary Ann and Nancy for such fun company.
Note: Milo was trying to photograph the flukes for identification, hence most of my pics are of the flukes too. He wasn’t doing it as a paid job, but to help one of the organizations involved in humpback whale studies. And because it’s fun and cool. The whales would surface, blow out their breath (very stinky, btw) and give us a glimpse of dorsal a few times before they made a characteristic maneuver that told us they were about to dive.
Here’s a teaser pic while I figure out how to resize the larger files and manhandle blogger.
Escaping the Bonds of Convention
The hamster got out again.
This is the fourth or fifth time he’s escaped his cage since we moved, but that’s not the interesting part. Every time he’s gone on his little jaunts, he’s managed to go further afield. His first two forays were into the laundry room right beside the bedroom where he lives. The next was into the kitchen. The one before this is a mystery, as my husband merely let him wander back into his room and into the cage set on the floor. This morning’s trek was to the living room; the other side of the house, for the most part. How he’s managed to drop to the floor and wander about without facing the enthusiastic reception (ie: pouncing and consumption) of two dogs and two cats is beyond my understanding.
You’d think he’d be happy to just eat and climb about in his deluxe cage, where every need is met. But is he content to stay within the confines of his plastic and metal world? No. Whether by purpose or accident, he is game to explore the far reaches of his existence. This is one courageous rodent, considering the pitfalls and dangers that reside near by.
It’s this kind of eagerness to see how far the world extends that inspires me. I could write a typical romance, or a typical fantasy. I trust my ability to do that. But what I really want to do, NEED to do, is push my work and myself to the limits. Playing it safe won’t get me more than a few nice comments on contest entries, or a line or so on a rejection letter saying my writing is decent but the story isn’t original enough. No writer wants to hear that. My current WIP is different, and hopefully different enough (But not TOO different. Even I understand the line between different and weird.) to someday find an audience wider than that of my crit partners.
So, with the heart of a certain hamster, I’ll break convention and push myself a little further with each story I write. It should be an interesting journey.
(Note: We have upped the security on the cage. Inspirational he may be, but we don’t want to find his little furry body in a cat’s jaws. Or not find him at all.)
Ferrets in the Field–Ferrets, Part Five
Previously on “Ferrets”: Cathy trundled through the Wyoming plains searching for prairie dog poo and narrowly avoiding rattle snakes; a stint at the Sybill facility, where black-footed ferrets were bred to increase their population and prepare them for release, showed that even captive-born ferrets retained the instinct and drive necessary for survival. Caught up? If not, scroll down to the previous entries. They’re good, so I’m told : )
Now that we knew the ferrets had the ability to take care of themselves out in the big, wide world, it was time to prepare them and the selected release sites. We didn’t just open the doors at the Sybill facility and say, “There ya go, kids! Good luck and God bless!” This is science, people, which means there is painstaking study and discussion, gobs of paperwork, and a lot of us grunts standing around waiting for the folks in charge to tell us what to do. It’s a lot like any other job, but with poo and chopping up prairie dog carcasses.
The idea was to set up cages at the release site where the ferrets remained contained and fed by us as they acclimated to the outdoors for about a week. Remember, these ferrets were born and raised inside a building. A very nice building, but it was climate controlled and their every need was met. The cages were about a meter by a meter cube, on legs with a PVC tube running from the bottom. Initially, access to the tube was blocked; we didn’t want the little beasties getting out too soon. There was also a nest box within the cage, like the ones in Sybill, where we could shut the ferret inside to clean the cage and feed it while it acclimated.
The ferrets themselves were also prepared. After they were captured in their cages at Sybill (I’m not sure what method the handlers used for that but I’m betting it was a hell of a job. Ferrets are fast and feisty), the ferrets were fitted with radio-collars so we could track their movements once they left the field cages. Nowadays, I think they implant little chips under the ferrets’ skin. Back in 1991, the technology wasn’t there, or wasn’t cost effective, so the old fashioned collars were what we used. They looked uncomfortable to me, and there is always concern that slapping a collar on critter will impede its natural movements and ability to survive, but controlled testing seemed to indicate the ferrets weren’t adversely affected. I think we placed ten ferrets initially, and another ten later, but I can’t recall.
So, you have a cube on legs with a tube running out of the bottom in the middle of a Wyoming field. Inside is a very confused ferret wearing the latest in biological bling. Outside the cage, sitting in a small trailer some distance away, a bevy of biologists checking the pings of radio signals. Each ferret was on its own frequency that we had to follow. The US Fish and Wildlife Service was in charge of following the ferrets’ signals, while we state workers got to clean the cages and feed the ferrets. Both aspects were fun and interesting, and we buddied to let each faction get a chance to do tracking and cleaning so no one felt “cheated.”
Oh, did I mention the brouhaha of media attention? I didn’t? Oh, man. Well, for Wyoming it was a HUGE event. There was local coverage coming out our ears. There was a big party with the governor and the higher ups of local, state, and federal agencies who’d worked on getting the ferret program up and running. (No, we grunts didn’t attend. WE were working. Plus, most of us preferred to be with the ferrets.) But it didn’t stop there. The national spotlight fell on Shirley Basin, as did the international. I was a blip on a CNN piece (my dad even recorded it for me; I still have the tape), and I know of at least one visit by a British reporter. Glen and I spent the day saying, “Bloody ‘ell” until our boss gave us the stink eye.
But the most “interesting” encounter with the media came from a wildlife show. I won’t name names, but after hearing this (and it was only through a second or third party that I heard, so this is TOTAL rumor) I gained a whole new perspective on how these shows are made. It seems that one of the ferrets was getting its radio-collar adjusted while this person was around filming. The ferret, of course, was unconscious for the procedure. Which makes sense and was perfectly safe. So Mr. “Wild” wants shots of the ferret. While it’s unfettered by a cage. Up close so it looks good for his show. Um, problem. (A), this particular little guy wasn’t slated to be fully released yet. (B), he (the ferret, not the guy) was coming out of the anesthesia, half drugged and not particularly happy. Oh, says Mr. “Wild,” can’t you just have him in the grass here for just a minute? Um, no. Mr. “Wild” wasn’t thrilled that we didn’t comply with his request. Too bad, bucko.
Once the ferrets were used to the great outdoors, we removed the slat blocking the tube that led to the ground. They were free to come and go as they pleased. To make sure they didn’t starve in those first days, and to give them a safe place to return to in case of predation, we put prairie dog bits in the cages and checked each day to see if it was eaten. This, in conjunction with the tracking, told us if the ferrets were sticking around. Some left the cages and never looked back. Others came and went for a few days then struck out on their own.
Tracking of the ferrets continued for some time after they left their cages for good. But not all of them made it. Loss is calculated and expected in a program like this, but each time a signal remained stationary for too long, my heart sank a little. Someone would go out with a handheld receiver to find the collar. Once or twice it was just the collar, and we had no idea if the ferret it belonged to merely slipped out or was killed. Other times, sadly, a body was found.
Despite the losses, I was thrilled to be part of this program. A species on the brink of extinction has been given the chance to re-establish itself in its native habitat. Not in a zoo, not in a breeding facility. Out on the open plains, hunting prairie dogs and dodging predators. There is still a lot of work to be done to keep the black-footed ferret program up and running. Go to Defenders of Wildlife or the black-footed ferret recovery program site (or to your favorite critter site to help some other species) to see more about the great work being done.
This is the final installment of my ferret-related adventures, though I have a few other non-ferret stories, I’m sure ; ) It’s been fun sharing them and remembering one of the best times of my career as a wildlife biology grunt. Thanks for coming along for the ride.
Cute Little Creatures with Big, Nasty Teeth–Ferrets, Part Four
I’d like to begin this continuation of ferretsploitation (a word as awkward to write as it is to read) with a shout out to the folks at Prairie Wildlife, Defenders of Wildlife, all the folks at the Wyoming Department of Game and Fish and at the US Fish and Wildlife Service, as well as countless others who put in an amazing amount of effort to protect our natural resources. I’d also like to tip my hat to romance writer Nora Roberts, who in light of a particularly unhappy situation in the writing world (go elsewhere for the details, people, I’m exploiting something else here), is offering to match funds donated for the protection of black-footed ferrets or other species. You are one class act, ma’am.
So on to the next installment of ferretsploitation. You may want to read the previous post, at least, to catch up. Just a suggestion : )
The young female ferret must have smelled the prairie dog in the box under her cage even before the tube was made accessible. Not too difficult, as prairie dogs are, shall we say, aromatic. Ferrets, being mustelids, are no slouches in the stinky department either, and surely the prairie dog was aware of the ferret.
Those of us observing from another room via the closed circuit camera watched the ferret stick her twitching nose out of her nest box. In a matter of seconds, she scurried down the tube to where the prairie dog was being held. There was no delay, no hesitation. This captive born female who had never been out of the protected facility, whose mother and possibly grandmother had never seen the natural light of a Wyoming day, shot into the prairie dog’s box and immediately began her attack. (Keep in mind, ferrets weigh 2-3 pounds, as do prairie dogs. Imagine having to go out every night to wrestle and kill something your size, equipped with weapons similar to your own as well as a determination NOT to be your dinner. This is what a black-footed ferret had to do in the wild. Just to eat. Add to that the need to avoid BEING dinner for some coyote, badger or bird of prey.)
There was a blurr of bodies as each tried to gain the advantage over the other. Two sets of teeth and claws, two creatures determined to win the battle for survival. A few yips from the prairie dog, and in under three minutes, it was over.
The female ferret held the neck of the prairie dog in her jaws. On the monitor, we could see her sides heaving. After a few moments, she dragged the rodent back up the tunnel to her nest box where her kits waited.
I think we cheered, quietly as to not disturb the ferrets, and I’m sure there were a few tears. Despite their years in captivity, despite their fragile hold on a place in the world, the survival the black-footed ferret population had just been given a vote of confidence.
After a week at Sybille, I returned to the trailer court in Shirley Basin to finish up release site evaluations. In a few short weeks, the first staging boxes would be placed in chosen areas, the first release candidates collared and brought out to the field. It was an exciting time because we all knew we’d been working on something special. Science isn’t always pretty, in fact, it’s often downright messy, but it is almost always exhilarating and gratifying.
Next time: Marco! Polo! Ferrets in the field.
Cute Little Creatures with Big, Nasty Teeth–Ferrets, Part Three
Seeing as the last two posts were about rattlesnakes, I guess it’s time to get to the furry critters. Ferrets and prairie dogs are adorable, and it’s lucky for them that they are. We humans seem almost pre-programmed to want to take care of the cute and cuddly, with mammals being top on the list of “Save the {insert preferred species here}
Just about anything that gets people talking about helping threatened and endangered species, be they ferrets or whales, northern spotted owls (another species I’ve worked with) or the New Mexican ridge-nosed rattlesnake (yes, even *I* think rattlesnakes deserve help sometimes) is worth it. But there are an incredible number of other mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, amphibians, insects, other invertebrates and plants listed at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service site that most folks have probably never even heard of. Don’t just save the cute ones, people : )
But back to the p.dogs and ferrets.
After scoping out potential release sites, we (being the biology grunts working for the state of Wyoming) coordinated with the program manager and grunts working for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to get the ferrets ready. The idea was to take captive bred ferrets, fit them with radio collars, set them in holding cages out on the prairie to acclimate them to the big, wide world, and open their cages so they could come and go until they went off on their own. We’d track their movements over time to (a) see if they were staying in the area or not, and (b) to keep tabs on mortality. Harsh reality: It was expected that only about 10% of the ferrets released would be alive by the next year. And that would be considered a good survival rate.
First thing we had to do was learn how to take care of caged ferrets. (You can go on over to the black-footed ferret site and read about all the great work being done with captive breeding and such.) I spent about a week at the Sybille Wildlife Research and Conservation Center in Wheatland, WY with a caring and incredibly dedicated staff whose names have completely escaped me after 17 years! Sorry, folks! But they were all amazing and I appreciate their work to no end. We learned just how hard it was to take 18 surviving members of the species and breed them without creating more of a genetic bottleneck than was to be expected from such a small population, dealing with infant mortality, and the constant threat of diseases like distemper getting into the facility and wiping out the captive population.
Each day, we donned protective gear and stepped into a disinfecting solution to keep from tracking outside nasties into the facility. The staff of caretakers showed us how to prepare food, which consisted of chunks of prairie dog meat and other goodies to keep the ferrets healthy. We were taught the proper technique for securing the ferrets in the nest box within their cages so we could reach in to clean it without getting attacked by the little carnivores. And yes, they had no problem attacking the hands that fed them, which was fine. Despite their captive status, these were wild animals, kept wild and wary and properly aggressive for their own good. You’ll soon see how effective that was.
Oh, a note about ferret food: Prairie dog is not found in your local grocery store or even specialty meat market. The p. dogs had been trapped and kept at the facility then humanely harvested to feed the ferrets. That is a ferret’s natural prey so that’s what they were fed. Prairie dogs are nasty, stinky rodents that tried to bit through the bars of the trap. Which I could understand, considering they were trapped and marked for death. (There were, in the not too distant past, some people who thought they’d make good pets and were selling and buying them. My reaction: WTF???)
While I was training at Sybille, there was a grad student studying the captive ferrets and their hunting instincts. To thrive in the wild, a ferret would have to find its own dinner. Could these captive born and bred ferrets, who’d never seen the outside world or had their mothers teach them to hunt, be successful? It was a huge question. Can you understand how huge? There would be no ground up prairie dog served on a nightly basis, no humans to make sure they were getting their fill once the ferrets decided to leave the release boxes (more on how that worked later). Would the “easy” life of a captive animal be the ferrets’ downfall?
To find this out, Astrid, the grad student, secured a long PVC tube (simulating a prairie dog town tunnel) to the bottom of a 2nd or 3rd generation captive-born mother ferret’s cage and attached it to a Plexiglas box containing a live prairie dog. Astrid set up a camera that could record in the low light of the room and removed the slats blocking the opening to the tunnel.
It didn’t take long for the ferret to make her move.
(to be continued…)