A Requiem for Indie
 
I'm writing this because I know all you ferret folks on this list will
understand.  People who don't "get" ferrets don't know what means to lose
your tiny little bear, but I know that you all will understand.
 
Yesterday I had to have my little Indie, Queen of Weasels, put to sleep.
My sweet little honey bear is no more.  The vet quickly and painlessly gave
her the shot, gently handed her back to me, and I held her in my lap and
cradled her head in my hands as she slipped off into a deeper and deeper
sleep.  It was so sad.  I'm crying now as I write this, remembering the
peaceful way she just seemed to become lighter and lighter, all the tension
going out of her body, all her struggles relaxing as her tiny little body
gave way to restfulness.  It was so sad.  Her little pink tongue was
sticking out just like it used to when she was in a deep, deep sleep.
Poor little thing, I didn't want her to go, and I told her so.  My little
honey pie.  She was my loving, trusting, sweet companion for almost eight
years, and now she's gone.  My sweet weasel.  I miss her so much.
 
I put out some candles for her on the dining room table, and some
photographs of her smiling (that's the only word for it) as she hid under
the couch daring me to come get her.  And the picture of her basking in the
patch of sun on the bathmat, her fat little tummy soaking up the rays, her
luxurious otter tail fanned out for the whole world to admire.  I put out
her little yellow rubber duckie that never squeaked, and her little green
rubber turtle that did.  And I put out a little pile of raisins for her.
Poor little pie-pie, she can have as many raisins as she wants now, not
just the one a day the vet said she could have.  And I found the picture of
my girlfriend wearing Indie on her head like a little happy fur hat.  Her
ruff is up and her coat is glossy and thick, and she's looking at the
camera saying, I like it up here.  I like being a fur hat on a Big Weasel.
 
I'm going to miss the way she loved riding around on the yellow dustmop, as
I ran it over the hardwood floor, touring around from room to room, riding
on her little yellow magic carpet.  She must have loved the smell of that
thing, because sometimes I'd find her curled up on it where it was stored
behind the door, basking in the little sliver of sunlight that went back
there in mid-morning.  Maybe she was just waiting for it to start up again
and tour her around under the bed and down the hallway; and often it did --
when I saw her basking there I'd take her for a little ride around the
house.
 
Indie had cataracts in both eyes, and was blind for the last part of her
life, but she still got around great.  She always found her way to her
favorite spots.  Only once she fell down one stair in the stairwell, and
was trapped there -- she couldn't get back up that one step.  That only
happened once -- then I made her a little cardboard ramp and glued
terrycloth onto it so she could go up and down as she pleased.  Sometimes
she would get lost and I'd go into the dining room to find the little
mousebear standing, completely still, with her little snout in the corner,
like she had wandered in there and ran out of steam and didn't know which
way to go from there.  I'd call to her and make little scritching noises on
the floor, and she'd turn around and toddle over to the sound of my voice,
wanting to be picked up.
 
She always wanted to be picked up.  In the mornings she would stand right
in between my feet in the bathroom as I brushed my teeth, trusting I
wouldn't step on her, waiting for me to pick her up and put her on the
counter so she could lick warm water out of the palm of my hand.  Then it
was time to go play in her special plastic shopping bag which made loud
crinkly noises when she rolled around in it.  She kept all her little ducks
and turtles in there, and made sure that any stray ones in the living room
were brought right back there and put into the bag with the others.  Even
if it meant bumbling through the maze of table and chair legs under the
kitchen table and bumping her snout, she would carry the little turtles in
her mouth, one by one, and carefully arrange them back in the bag with the
others.
 
And I'm going to miss the way she would give me little ferret kisses, lots
and lots of little ferret kisses, on my ear and right on the lips, for a
long time, as long as I could stand her raspy pink little tongue.  She was
grooming me, taking care of her Big Weasel and making sure I had clean
ears.  Because we all know how important clean ears are.  I miss making a
little tent of the covers so she could curl up in there and smack her chops
in glee, lick her little lips with her tiny pink tongue as she rolled onto
her back and curled up in there for a good, long warm snooze.
 
I'm going to miss the way she smelled when she'd been sleeping for a long
time in her nest: just exactly like toffee.  A good, clean, spicy smell,
just like toffee.  Indie was a very small ferret; she never weighed much
more than a pound and a half.  She was the sweetest soul I have encountered
on this planet.  She was sweet, and nothing but sweet, and it make this
whole thing so much more touching and painful because she was so tiny and
fragile and needed me so much.  This winter her coat came in very thick and
glossy and luxurious, all her underhairs turning snow-white like a little
winter ermine.  My little stinky mink -- she always wore her fashionable
mink coat wherever she went.  And her chocolate-colored vest with the
matching pantaloons...and she never went out without her mask.  This Autumn
she gained back all her weight, and got a nice, fat tummy.  She was my
little Lardvaark, toddling around in with her fat little tummy and her
fluffy coat like a crepuscular little twilight animal poking around for
adventures in the dusk...
 
When I came back from the vet without her, my other ferret, Eva, the young
one, ran from room to room looking in all the corners, then came up to me
and peered up with her dark and bright eyes, and the ruff on her proud
little apple-chest poked out, and said, "Okay, I give up.  Where is she?".
Eva Knievel, my Eva of Destruction, I still have her.  My little Hurricane
Eva who can't leave any wastepaper basket unturned.  But I miss my little
tiny bear.  I miss my little Indie Bear.
 
Ferrets really are tiny sparks, little firecrackers of life that go out so
soon.  I always kept my film and photographic papers on the top shelf in my
room because I knew my weasels would tear into them...but also because I
felt they would fog the film just by being near, their little souls burn so
bright.  Take good care of yours, and love them lots when they're around,
because they make a big hole in your heart when they go.
 
When I get her ashes back from the vet, I'm going to build a kite.  I'm
going to go up to the headlands where the sun goes down over the sea, and
the hills roll away, and I'm going to fix the little container of ashes on
the kite (there can't be more than a few tablespoons), and I'll attach a
second string to the lid of the container.  Then when the wind takes the
kite up into the sky, I'll pull the string, there'll be a puff of gray, and
Indie will go into the sky and will be gone forever.  My Indie in the wind,
gone into the sky.
 
She had a good life, I took good care of her and loved her a lot.  And
she had a gentle death when it was time to go.  But she was my loving,
trusting, sweet little companion, and I miss her so much.
 
Goodbye, my tiny little bear, I wish you didn't have to go so soon.
 
Dan 
[Name and e-mail address removed after publication, by request of poster]
[Posted in FML issue 3245]