Hippie doesn’t get out much, and to tell you the truth he’s not all that interested in venturing beyond the five walls of our half-hexagon shaped apartment.  He’s a tough old guy, and he’s seen the harsh side of life.  Having been abandoned by his previous owners and left caged in the night outside the shelter in oppressive tropical swelter, he knows the dark side of life.

Anyway, we recently took Hippie to the beach, on what was supposed to be a fun outing for all.  Bun went too, on his very first excursion outside the home.  Having become frail and balding, Pig stayed home and attended to her roach army.

Like a sour old man who’s lost joy in the newness and strangeness of life’s surprises, Hippie didn’t give one s*%t about the beach.  Bun did what all ferrets seem to do when we let them loose near water: head for the hills.  So, while one of us chased Bun the other had to hold Hippie, who would also scurry inland from the ocean, after having taken a quick whiff at the water’s edge.  He’d make it as far as the tall grasses behind the sand, then have to be hoisted up by his shoulders before he tunneled away out of site.  They both hated it.   Here’s Hippie after being scooped up just before he made it to the border (i.e. sidewalk).