The Chair

I am up early at my house. I loved getting up and having the house to myself for a few hours, even though I don't get to do that as much now. My guys liked it too, with me letting them out early in the morning shortly after I got up. I have a ritual of getting them fresh water in their water bowl (which they needed - how it got so disgusting, I have no idea) and fresh food in the food bowl (which they don't need, because it's the same stuff they throw in their water to make it disgusting). It got to the point that they expected to be let out at an obscenely early time each and every morning. But it was me and them, and whattaya gonna do, let 'em sit there?

They would hear me get up and be instantly awake. As I stumbled past them to the bathroom I would pass a wall of weasels looking at me, each one waiting for me to open the cage door. Hey, can I... uh, ya know, give me a minute? Scooter is one of my older guys, although I don't really know how old he is. He isn't solid muscle like the others, having previous health problems, and does not move as easily as the others. I have other, older guys too - Jackson and Rascal, but it is Scooter who is standing on his back feet waiting for the cage door to open and the ramp to come up. And even before I hook the ramp to the side, he is walking down it, ready or not. Geez, can't you wait till I hook the damn thing, you crazy weasel? He has sometimes even jumped seven or so inches from the bottom of the cage to the floor, snubbing my efforts to get the ramp attached quickly enough. But he is always, and I mean out of *all* of them, *always* the first one out. I get it. I am a man of ritual, myself, being the first one up. It makes me smile and feel good somehow. I tell myself (without any logic really attached to it) that if Scooter's the first one out, everything is going to be OK. He's happy, he's healthy, it's gotta be a good day. It is usually my first smile.

Roscoe and Stewart are two youngsters we got from someone who couldn't/didn't/wouldn't take-your-pick-story-of-your-own-creation. I don't even want to think about it. Twittering with lots of people trying to save animals, and hearing first-hand the reasons people give for surrendering their animals, has made me a little less tolerant. I never really asked my wife what the story was, as I was reluctant to take them in as we already had nine. But they were here, and like I said before - whattaya gonna do? And, to my blessing, they have been the joy of my mornings.

These two were little fat boys when they first arrived. Roscoe was huge, and often (what do I mean, "often?") *always* slept on his back because he was so big. Stewart had his baby fat, too, but not like Roscoe. Roscoe cracked me up one time when he crawled up on a pillow on a shelf that was completely out in the open (not like weasels usually sleep), again sleeping on his back. The way he was just laying there, arms folded - King Roscoe asleep on his throne. That was a nice wide smile that morning, I think even a chuckle or two.

But it is both Stewie and Roscoe who make me laugh out loud. And cuss out loud, sometimes. I have to remember to close the door to my room. I usually have water or coffee or something left from the night before sitting on my table next to my chair. The Chair. If I forget and get them water (or myself coffee) without closing the door - it is inevitable. I will remember too late and rush to the door to see the flash-flooding of the invisible arroyo that runs underneath my chair. Why do I leave my drink there at all, you wonder? I have to keep my door closed because Stewie has found his only purpose in life - to get underneath my chair and tear out it's bottom. I don't care about the chair, but I'm worried the fibers he could ingest could give him a blockage, and the little bugger just won't stop. So I keep my door closed. Leaving *my* drink on *my* table shouldn't be a problem for me. Stupid hoomin. Getting through that door to The Chair is all Stewie lives for. Whattaya think they mean when they say "ferreted out?"

I try to run it out of him. Roscoe and Stewie love to play, and play longer than any of the others do, if the others play at all. Sometimes I wardance with them. I will run up on them while they are backing up, then stop. Roscoe likes to take off when I do that, but Stewie sees it as his challenge, and even though I'm taller than he can jump, he jumps at me anyways. I will spin around him (watching my feet) and he will spin with me. Meanwhile, Roscoe will sneak up behind and attack, and we will all wardance together. I find myself laughing out loud, giggling like a kid... no one up, mind you, just me and them. It is usually the second smile of my morning. Eventually we will tire of this game (OK, they don't tire of it...) and one of us will concede just so he can make himself coffee and sit down. Behind the closed door. In The Chair.

I have to close my door the whole way now, even though if I just nudge it closed they don't have the strength to push it open. But they don't know that. Or they pretend they don't know that. An open door of any kind is an opportunity. And they will stand on their hind legs and dig at the wood. Or they will dig at the carpet (which is *already* shot to heck), but they will dig until they see me completely close the door the entire way. Somehow, that's a signal for them to give up. And being the wiley creatures they are, they *act* like they're giving up and abandon the door, usually to go wardance on top of the missus - lazy thing - who's still in bed trying to sleep. That's usually my third chuckle of the morning. "I'm sorry honey, I forgot to close your door." Yeah, sure I did. "Hey, I made coffee, whattaya want?"..

And I will be standing in the living room - bedroom containing an aggravated missus on one end, my room on the other - and it will go silent. Most of them will have either eaten or wardanced themselves into a slumber and found a place to nap, but not all of them... Stewie runs reconnaissance under the TV by my door, quietly waiting for it to open so he can get to The Chair. He thinks I don't see him, but I do. It's either that, or he really doesn't care if I see him or not. That's probably closer to the truth. But he will wait for me to come by, nose sticking out from under the TV, and try to rush the door. I can for the most part beat him in a rush, although sometimes he slips in. Damn weasel, you know I'm just going to pick you up, put you outside the door, and that's that. Why do you even try? Well, listen to me scolding a ferret for being persistent. I'm a genius.

But Stewie is the embodiment of the word "persistent." He will continue his reconnaissance until I am not paying attention and I unwittingly leave the door open. He is *good*. Sometimes the first sign I have that he's infiltrated my room is to feel a poking at my backside from underneath the chair. I couldn't ignore it if I wanted to. You pain-in-the-butt, why do you do this? You must know that I can feel you poking me, right? OK, so you're not a genius, either...

Just as I'd gotten comfortable with a coffee at my side, I have to get *up* out of the chair, tilt the chair on it's front legs, slide it forward, and retrieve the invader. And it's always the same - always a surprise to him. As I lift the chair up, I find him crouched as if he were still lowering himself to fit under the chair. You or I would realize that we were caught and stand up, but he just stays crouched, feet splayed, surprised as I would be if God were to lift up the sky like a blanket, look down on me, and pick me up. And even though this has happened a hundred times, he is always just as surprised.

So I take him to the living room and give him the obligatory toss onto the couch. This is his reset button. Immediately upon landing on the couch, he does a short wardance (I think just to mock me), climbs to the top of the couch, looks back, dives over, and slinks down - usually not to be seen again until I lift up The Chair. And we do this over and over again. This is our routine - fresh water, kibble, coffee, wardancing, and The Chair. I could go do something else in the morning, I suppose, but I'm kinda happy the way it is. Just like Scooter needs to be first one out of the cage in the morning, I need my smiles and my giggles. I need Roscoe's professionally improvised comic relief. But most of all, I need what Stewie gives me.

Some would describe Stewie's nature as determined and tenacious, and they would be quite right in their description of this second cousin to the wolverine. Or one could describe him as persistent and stubborn, but those are not the exact words I would use. There is another, better word that describes what goes on in our early morning battle for The Chair. It is what we all look for, without knowing that we're looking for it, sometimes...

Hope.