Riot came home from the shelter Tuesday night. He’s 10 months old. A wee one.
Feeling Riot was vaguely derogatory, we’ve tried other names out in the three days he’s been at home with us. Mit, because he’s a sweet chocolate-silver mitt mix, but that brings up thoughts of Mitt Romney, which is DO NOT WANT. I suggested Will, because oh boy, can you not get him to do anything he doesn’t already want to do, and Mr. A countered with Nutjob. Which was obviously out.
But in the end? Riot fits. I thought we had a squirrelly ferret in Puck. Oh, no. We have a NORMAL ferret in Puck. In Riot we have a cracked-outpsychotic dingo who chases his own tail and dust particles and jingle balls and his shadow and me and Mr. A and Puck around the room for HOURS and still isn’t tired, who eats half a bowl of food at a crack and then follows me like a puppy and begs for treats. I tried to wear him out yesterday. Tried. Two hours later I was lying on the floor exhausted and he was standing on my stomach like, “Aw, c’mon, I was just getting started! Mom? Mom?”
He and Puck are getting along all right, though it’s very much an older bro-younger bro dynamic:
Riot: Puck? Puck! Play with me! C’mon! You know you wanna! Let’s wrestle! Let’s roll the jingle balls around! Let’s destroy one of Dad’s shoes! Puck? Puck? Puck?
Puck: STFU NOOB I PWN j00
But they do curl up in the cage together at night, which is the real test, and Puck’s been a lot more active now that he’s gotten used to the interloper. Which is what we wanted. He needed a friend.
Video of the new furby, who it’s impossible to watch and not pet:
A.