but had stopped holding hands. Irritated, affronted, cranky blockheads place their hands elsewhere.
“We’d have to camp out in the bush, wouldn’t we? Like a pair of demented Jane Goodalls lusting for the trap to catch a real actual live ferret and not a cougar or something.”
“I am not a Jane Goodall,” said the male one of us. “I’m more of a Leakey figure.”
“Leakey? All right. If you wish, we’ll be Jane Goodall and Mr. Leakey there in the blind. That’s a hiding place, you know. Blind is a hiding place.”
“I’m aware of that. Don’t spit when you shout.”
“Sorry. I was thinking, sort of. There’d be rain, wouldn’t there. Out in the bush. Rain … while waiting for a ferret. There’d be plenty of rain.”
“It always rains in the bush,” Mr. Leakey sighed. “Heavy, buckets-full-of-water-hurled-in-your-face kind of rain. And mud and cold and terrible discomfort. Wind, even, and not enough kerosene for the heater. Not enough survival food like six bottles of Bordeaux, and Calzone, and artichoke dip, and balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil for the bread. “Oh to contemplate the existence of an extra virgin, a spare virgin, or an especially virginal virgin, pure, pure, pure!” (Mr. Leakey said this as an overheated aside, and then returned to the distasteful damp.) “We’d be huddled in our rain gear, in the dark, with not even a flashlight burning because the light might scare the soon-to-be-captured ferret.”
So, we decided that we’d find our ferret at a Pet Store, somewhere clean and inside. With overhead lighting and banks of dog food, and mouse toys for cats, and a vending machine at the door taking quarters for the Vets and giving chocolate covered peppermints in return. Definitely. We’d find our ferret in a Pet Store cage amongst a litter of six-week-old ferrets looking fluffy and adorable. Like kittens or puppies. Like budgies, even. With the teenaged salesgirl gushing, “Oh, they’re really, really cute. And smart! They understand every word you say! You can train them to beg and roll over and play dead and. Did I say smart? They’re like a dog with attitude.”
“Attitude? A pet with attitude?”
“Yeah. Not to dis slavish and loyal dogs, but ferrets? Ferrets are truly special. Spiritual, even. Yeah, ferrets are spiritual.”
But she’d be preaching to the converted; we’d have already decided that some kind of transformation (emotional, spiritual, who cares?) was at hand with the purchase of a ferret and so all we’d have to do now was buy the gear: the huge stainless steel cage for it to live in; the bags of dry food, the cases of wet food because we wouldn’t know what kind it prefers; the toy rats to play with; the treats, the special protective clothing with which to handle the ferret, matching canvas suits so we’d look like beekeepers or astronauts or hazardous waste workers, and it would all come to just over two thousand dollars. But never mind, we’d tell each other. Never mind because we’d finally have our ferret and we’d be excited! Rushing home with our grand new baby ferret, we’d be just the most excited we’d ever been. In what? Decades and decades.
“And it’ll be really sweet the way the ferret growls in its cage,” Mr. Leakey said. “Six weeks old and already with razor sharp incisors, jugular-ripping incisors.”
“But wait. There’s more.” The half of us that’s Jane said. “There’s vet bills for distemper shots and neutering and three month checkups, and teeth filing and claw clipping. And the Vet’s nurse would give us a pack of those pet toothbrushes you put rudely on your index finger then rub over your pets teeth, in this case, a ferret’s teeth, and we’d have to wear our protective gear but it would be useless against the frenzied squirming of the ferret and you screaming at me, ‘For Christ’s sake Jane, hold onto the bloody thing!’ as the ferret slips from my grasp like wet soap and lunges at your face, lacerating your cheek, the ferret loose now and ferreting out the cats and me howling, ‘I didn’t really mean it about slaughtering the cats!’ which, fortunately, the ferret doesn’t accomplish because it streaks out the door and now there’s a semi-wild predator on the suburban loose terrorizing small children and poodles.”
Suddenly we felt like sleeping. Only 6:45 on a Friday night, the sunset a good three hours away, this being June, and we felt exhausted. By the idea of owning a ferret. We’d used up fifteen minutes exhausting ourselves with an idea.
So we chucked the whole thing and the Jane of us said, “Hey, let’s have a theme party! Let’s dress up as bag ladies, as bums, as hobos, as homeless people, as crazy people, as schizophrenics and psychotics off their medication. Let’s go over the top and invite ornamental catatonics, real ones, not just your regular bored empty people like us but authentic vacated bodies; we’ll serve hospital food; we’ll turn the house into a shelter. For fun. Everyone pretending to be destitute or suicidal.”
“Smack yourself for that idea,” Mr. Leakey said. “Smack yourself hard. That thought is not allowed. You can no longer dress up in the misery of others.”
“Then how about this,” Jane said. “The Sound of Music! We’ll do the Sound of Music. Rent the video, serve schnitzel and apple strudel; invite friends over to dress up as Maria, Mother Superior, the Count, the stupid singing kids. Ray a drop of golden sun. Tea a dish with bread and jam. “
Then we sighed. The pair of us sitting on the couch, wearing our crash helmets, staring out the window. We came down heavily. Hand in hand again, yawning at 6:50 on a Friday night: down, down, down. The helmets protecting us should we collapse from excitement, should excitement make a surprise visit. The yawns protecting us from glee.
“I’m telling you, coming up with fabulous, original parties is hard work,” Jane said, utterly discouraged. “Absolutely not exciting. Glee-less like the book of Job. There’s a definition: Job—One who under the disguise of comfort aggravates distress. That’s us! Distressed for what? All our lives?”
There was no distraction. We couldn’t watch TV because last week we’d burnt the TV as a political statement. We’d said, “Enough of commercially generated corporate-driven entertainment!” In retrospect, a mistake, perhaps.
So we decided to go out, ride the bike double around the block, look in neighbour’s windows. Like anthropologists. Next thing we’re on the way to the ferry terminal. “Let’s go out for dinner!” Mr. Leakey suddenly cried, inspired. “Let’s eat from the vending machines—Cheesies, Salt N Vinegar chips, diet pop, lemonade, O Henry bars, Cup-A-Noodle. The authentic food of the North American people.”
We rode the bike to get there—excitedly! A three mile trip over hills (no dales) to a stretch of highway. Jane giddy on the seat, the “you” of Jane’s life, Mr. Leakey, pumping away like anything.
We never made it.
Two blocks from home we saw a white rabbit. A huge white rabbit dashing across the street. White like Easter. White as snow. Dashing across the green and brown suburban world. An escaped pet, perhaps, a mutant. Maybe a rabbit like Alice’s. (Oh, for a hole to fall into! Some unexpected place … after place … after place … )
Then, inspired by the rabbit, you said, Mr. Leakey said, “Maybe a kid, Jane. Maybe we should go home and make a kid or two.”
So we did that. We went home—at 7:40 to be precise—and began work on the first kid. Then, a while later, we concocted another one. Then another.
And this is how we unexpectedly entered the world of jugular-ripping family life. Boredom banished forever! No sort of about it. Boredom in three decisive strokes eliminated.
Nothing
