On the last Sunday in August, I took my ferrets to the North West Terrier Lurcher and Ferret Club summer show and barbecue. It was a still, sultry afternoon-one of the hottest days of the year-and the movements of the animals and humans were noticeably economical. They mostly sat or lay together in the shade of the ancient hedge that enclosed the field until they were called to the appropriate showing ring or table.
I have three albino ferrets, two jills and a hob, just weaned, bought for 50p each at the end of July when almost everyone you meet is trying to sell ferret kittens. I took them to the show in a large plastic barrel and left them under an elderbush while my son and I went to eye up the competition. Ferret people will talk ferrets all day and I soon got chatting to a humble sort of chap who had brought 15 along. We stood beside his row of divers crates and boxes and talked ferrets, then we sat down in the thick grass and talked more ferrets and he got them out one by one and he and I passed them between us as we conversed.
Sometimes he would wave a ferret in the air to give emphasis to his words. While I was speaking, one of his elegant lurcher bitches got to her feet, tip-toed among us and sniffed delicately at my moving lips. The man's wife, who was sitting placidly in the back of the car with the door open and her legs out, noted my unconcern and gave me a discreet smile of acceptance.
This quiet summer idyll was interrupted, however, by a boastful weatherbeaten old man wearing a stetson who came and stood over us, glancing cursorily at the ferrets, then drew attention to himself by showing my son the jagged white scars he had all over his hands and wrists. He claimed they were mostly bites received when picking up live badgers with his bare hands-an unusual feat of daring that had earned him something of a reputation in his locality, he said. (The longest, thickest scar which went halfway around his wrist was an exception as it had been inflicted by a man in a pub with a broken bottle and a grievance.) This extraordinary, lacerated man turned out to be the ferret judge and had driven up from north Wales.
From one o'clock onwards, I was stewarding the terrier ring. The steward's job is to assist the judge by shouting out the name of each class ("Rough bitch!" and so on), to collect the 50p entry fees and any stools that are laid in the show ring, and to hand the rosettes to the judge when he appears to be on the verge of coming to a decision.
Most of the terriers are working dogs: that is to say they are expected to go underground and either hold a fox at bay or kill it outright. They have names such as Satan and Gripper and Thor. And there are always one or two called Brock or Badger-which strike me as unusual names to give to dogs that hunt only foxes. It is not much like Crufts. The ring is a hexagon of baler twine draped across some metal stakes, and there are few spectators apart from those showing their dogs. It is a beauty contest for canine thugs and there are none of the ridiculous breed standards that have ruined non-working British dogs. Apart from some practical considerations (such as whether the dog is small enough to get down a hole, or whether it has a good set of gnashers with which to set about the fox while it is down there) the judge can pick his winners for arbitrary, even self-indulgent reasons.
I tried to hurry the classes along so I could be free to show my ferrets. As soon as one class was dispersing, I was shouting out the next. "What's the 'urry boy, going to chapel this afternoon?" enquired a florid giant as he was led away by a pair of straining Jack Russells.
At 2.40pm, the judge handed the championship rosette to a sweet little girl in charge of a belligerent, beaten up old terrier and I sprinted over to where I had left my ferrets. Their barrel had been mistaken for a litter bin; they were curled up asleep underneath some ice lolly wrappers and a crumpled cigarette packet. I grabbed Mohammed in one hand and Fatima in the other and made for the judging table, where a small crowd was clustered-but we were too late, the judge had already judged the kittens and was on to the black hobs. And then I noticed he was wearing gardening gloves.
This was unbelievable. Nobody wears gloves to judge ferrets. It is just not done. Some thought it hilarious and called their friends and relatives over to witness something that they could laugh about for years to come. Others were angry and complained to the committee. The humble man with 15 ferrets said he did not think he would be coming again.
Personally, although I pretended to share their incredulity, I inwardly sympathised with the judge. I have had three ferrets for about a month and already I have been bitten on both hands, on the ear lobe, and once, when I was sitting on a low wall and incautiously allowed one to investigate the smell emanating from my private parts, through the scrotum. Should the price of Dettol come up in conversation these days, I am able to make a confident intervention.
