If Wishes Were Horses... or Ferrets.

It was about this same time that my awareness of horses turned into a longing. I can recall looking at my mom's Saddlebred horse magazines and turning down the pages that held my favorites. They were magnificent creatures, polished and pampered and almost mythical with flexed necks and flowing tails. I yearned for a horse but since I wasn't even allowed a dog or cat, this seemed like an unattainable dream. My mother, who also had the horse bug, gave me Breyer collectible horse statues for Christmases and birthdays. They were among my most treasured possessions (many of which I still have), and long hours were spent in my horsey world of cardboard barns and pencil-paddocks. I can recall carrying them out under the crab apple tree in the warmer months, and munching clover as I played with them. All of my horses had names, of course, and I had a favorite that was a Clydesdale with a requisite blaze and feathery white-stockinged legs. He came in a set with a gorgeous mare and they had matching green stable blankets. I had a recurring dream of the horse statues flying around my room at night and occasionally I would fly out the window on the back of that Clydesdale colt. The dreams were so vivid that I would wake and look out the bedroom window into my backyard, hoping to see him out there. I still have horse dreams every now and then, although not quite as vivid. I remember my Aunt Melon taking me to a place that gave pony rides, where I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, if only in twenty minute increments. I also practiced my riding skills on the back of our barrel-type barbecue grill. It was painted black and stood on long metal legs. I would tie a rope on one end, jump on and go! The Lone Ranger and another horse show called Fury were popular at the time. I watched faithfully and reenacted some of those adventures in my backyard, on my Fury barbecue grill, with a little white chicken as my sidekick.

Second in succession to Chicken Lizzie was a beautiful Barred Rock hen that I named Georgia (after the "Chicken George" character in Roots). She gave us lovely brown eggs, which seemed like a fair trade off for being allowed to free range in our unfenced yard during the day. I should add that, as with the previous house where Lizzie lived, this was in a neighborhood, with neighbors close by and a city ordinance which permitted no more than three laying hens, providing the neighbors didn't object. We did not live in the country, nor did we have anything larger than your average subdivision lot. In fact, this yard was about a fourth the size of our old one! Still, Georgia was pretty good about staying inside the boundaries and a favorite spot was in the cool green ivy near the front door. She often sat there on hot afternoons, unnoticed beneath the yew bushes. That is until the day our unsuspecting insurance guy/family friend stopped by and startled a napping Georgia, who jumped out of the ivy and ran after him. He headed for the safety of his car where he sat, honking, until my mom came out to retrieve the chicken. He swore that she chased him, but I happen to think she was just following him, hoping he might have a Popsicle.

I later added another hen for companionship for Georgia (Lizzie 2), but I wanted something more exotic than chickens. I bought a ferret in the early 1980s, before anybody really knew much about their care. I got her from the pet department at Famous Barr, of all things (which became Macy's many, many years later). I paid for her myself with money from my job selling men's shoes (a whole other story), brought her home and promptly scared the bejeebus out of my mother. She had no idea what this masked, slinky-like creature was and although she feigned disapproval, Jigs was so cute and comical that it didn't last long. My stepfather, on the other hand, would not have gone along with it for one second, so we kept her under wraps for a long time in a cage in my room, only letting her out when he wasn't home. Those of you who know a ferret may find it hard to believe due to their unique fragrance, but the arrangement worked without incident for a while. Until she went exploring. I had let her out when I got home from school and she was doing her usual happy dance all over the kitchen. If you have ever seen a ferret do this, you understand the hilarity of it. If you haven't, there is no way I can accurately describe it other than to say it is pure, unbridled glee. Picture a roll of storebought cookie dough, bent upward in the middle so as to resemble an inchworm and then imagine what that looks like hopping sideways, backwards and forwards on tippy toes. A happy ferret is a very amusing thing. The only trouble is that a happy ferret is also a very inquisitive creature that can fit into unbelievably small places. Like behind a dishwasher, say, 30 minutes before the non-animal-loving father figure is due home. This incident, I believe, is what set into motion my handiness with do-it-yourself projects. We HAD to extricate her from behind the dishwasher, or else. How we managed to do that between fits of laughter and sheer panic is still beyond me, but we did. She remained our secret until she got sick.
Labels: Lizzie
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1/22/08