Progression through the country year here is not marked by numbers on paper or buzzing phone notifications, but by the burning chill of a first frost in the nostrils, the scent of southern climes on our native breeze or, sometimes, a barely perceptible squeal emanating from my shed. I heard the plaintive mewing in early May this year and knew immediately that the first of my ferrets had given birth, and that summer had begun.
Terminology and Courtship
Understanding a little about breeding ferrets begins with some terminology. Females are jills and males are hobs, though my Traveller friends would insist on bitches and dogs and generally refer to ferrets as pugs, just to add to the confusion. The collective noun is a business, though expect contemptuous glances from any serious ferret fancier for trying to use it.
Jills come into season in early spring, at which time a hob can be introduced. Ferret courtship is a fairly to-the-point affair, with the larger hob seizing his intended by the neck and dragging her to a corner. There is no lasting animosity, though, and the couple will later be found fast asleep, gently wound into a single coil. All being well, around six weeks later the jill, pendulous with young, will quietly give birth at night in her hollowed-out nest. The litter of naked, blind kits can number as many as 14, though fewer is normal and, although hidden, their distinctive cries give their presence away.
Growing Kits and Their Mothers
Now nearly two months old, the young ferrets are thickly furred, eyes wide open and looking to explore the world, much to the dismay of their mothers. As a father of three myself, it feels like an uncomfortable metaphor to see the frantic jills relentlessly dragging their kits back to the nests, until they can only slump, exhausted, and watch their offspring totter off in search of more adventure.
My next adventure will be finding suitable homes for this year's young among the colourful characters who, along with myself, constitute the local ferret-keeping fraternity. My path will cross with all sorts of folk and end at the local Gypsy horse fair in September, where amid the clatter of hooves and the clamour of dealing, I will feel summer's end.
