Sometimes the anguish felt over the loss of a good friend makes even
contemplating writing about the bond so agonizing that each word strikes
the heart with a heavy jolt.  Writing about Tui will leave me bruised and
battered; only the memory of the joy he freely contributed to my life
will be able to cushion the pummeling.
 
Tui was born in New Zealand, the spiritual offspring of my good friend
Sam.  Named after a rather nice New Zealand beer (and a NZ bird), Tui was
a cinnamon Siamese point with dark eyes and a big orange nose.  A polecat
hybrid, Tui had a musculature and intelligence that frequently humbled my
extensive attempts to keep him off my bookshelf.  I have tons of books,
and wooden shelves bend and warp under the weight, so I use heavy steel
adjustable warehouse racks- -the type with the angle iron upright
supports pierced with a series of holes.  Tui would insert his claws into
the holes and scale the shelf as if he was walking across the room.  The
cover of my copy of An's thesis on ferret anatomy has a suspicious brown
stain that shall forever remind me of my little yellow monster.
 
That was only one manifestation of his magical powers.  Tui could leap
over ferret barriers as easily as he could turn 360 degrees inside his
skin in order to bite anyone scruffing him.  Tui HATED being scruffed,
and managed to bite every vet and vet tech he encountered that thought
Bob's sage advice not to scruff was an exaggeration.  Tui could run
faster than any other ferret, but when Bob's Chicken Gravy was
ceremoniously proffered, he could dig deep within and come up with a
few more meters-per-second speed to insure being first at the bowl.
Once Tui ran so fast he outran his braking ability and skidded into the
bowl, dumping the contents and covering himself in a tan glaze that was
irresistible to the other ferrets.  I still chuckle over the memory of
the yellow monster licking gravy from his feet while several other
ferrets licked it from his rump.
 
Tui would frequently teach his tricks to other ferrets, however, without
his superb build most were not up to the task and his frequent escapes
into ferret-free rooms were generally solo endeavors.  I remember on
time Tui leapt the barrier and snuck into the living room to investigate
the sounds of a pair of crusading ladies who had been canvassing the
neighborhood and spreading the word.  I love talking religion and
learning about people's beliefs, so I always open my door and invite
discussion.  The conversation turned to my personal beliefs and the
ladies were struggling to find a way to diplomatically ask if Quakerism
was a Christian faith.  It is generally about this time when my teasing
nature gets the better of me and I make some outlandish comment, but
this time Tui beat me to the punch by popping his head up between the
feet of the older of the two ladies.  She looked down, screamed, "Oh God,
a giant yellow rat!" and literally launched herself towards the door.
Her companion, doing an excellent impression of a cartoon character
creeping across the sofa using only their butt cheeks for locomotion,
asked where such a giant rat could originate.  With a straight face, I
said, "New Zealand.  It's a Tui Rat from New Zealand.  They are rare,
very rare."  The two never came back.
 
Tui wasn't a lap ferret: he was a Bob Ferret.  He would curl up into a
tight yellow ball on my chest and sleep for hours.  Sometimes he would
bring a snack for me to enjoy- -usually a chicken bone or occasionally a
tidbit from an insect or thawed "frozen mouse." I always accepted such
fare with dignified respect, it being a gesture of great affection and
kindness.  I would reciprocate, allowing Tui a sip of juice or a taste of
taco.  I had to watch the juice, however, because it invariably resulted
in intestinal gas, and Tui resisted my many, many offers of Beano.  Once
Tui stole a plastic pint of apple juice and gnawed the cap off to access
the nectar within.  He had such bad gas afterwards that if he had a pilot
light, he would have been a yellow rocket.  After that, the phrase "old
fart" held new meaning.
 
Tui's health was legendary.  He was never sick, not so much as a 'flu or
runny stool.  It was a surprise to realize he was losing weight a few
months ago, and I realized he was no longer running the show in the
ferret room, having passed the baton to Popeye.  I took him to the vet
and we could find nothing really wrong, but Tui's day was made when a
vet tech forgot the rule and scruffed him for the x-ray- -he LIVED for
nipping after scruffing!  Soon after, Tui's belly grew enormous, and his
urine and blood tests showed results consistent with liver damage.  A
second x-ray revealed an enormous mass in Tui's belly, so he was prepped
for surgery.  The mass was his liver, enlarged to the size of a child's
fist because of the presence of several large fluid-filled cysts.  Part
of the liver was removed and sent to pathology.  The results were
devastating: Tui had extensive liver damage due to an unknown disease
process.  It wasn't ADV- -Tui had always checked negative for the disease
and there was no indication of it in the samples sent to pathology.
Whatever caused the problem remains unidentified.  I knew then that Tui
was on borrowed time, but I held out hope there would be just enough
healthy liver cells left for a modest recovery.  Tui gave my heart a
little twang when I heard a vet student ignored the sign over Tui's cage
and scruffed him; hours after surgery, Tui magically spun in his skin to
bite the blighter.  Maybe he could yet recover.
 
But it was not to be.  At first Tui did well, chafed at being locked in
the hospital cage, and would climb the cage to get into my arms when I
chanced by.  Then his urine tests turned ugly.  Soon after, he lost
control of his bladder and bowel.  He was slowing down, and resorted to
waiting for me to pick him up.  There was the last trip to the vet, who
held out a crumb of hope, but both Tui and I knew the truth.  We said our
goodbyes, and I took Tui home.  We rocked in the chair that faces the
window over Tui's forest, where he loved to scamper and burrow and dig
and dance and just lay in the leaves while watching the carpenter ants
march by.  We rocked for several hours, hardly speaking, and then Tui
quietly climbed his last bookcase.
 
Tui could have lived to a hundred and it wouldn't have been enough time
for me.  I shall miss that yellow head popping up as if to say, "You
wouldn't have any frozen mice on you, would you?  Can I look?" I only
pretended to be irritated when he would plow the books off my shelf, or
gently nip my nose when I spoke to him about private things.  I would be
chuckling in my heart when I retrieved the bonsai from behind the couch
so I could repot it.  And it never bothered me when he would steal my car
keys and hide them behind the dresser, forcing me to use the telescoping
magnet to retrieve them.  Tui pulled hundreds of little pranks, and I
loved them all.
 
I have been struck with a heavy blow and have been left bloodied.  I will
miss you Tui.  I only wish I could tell you how much.  Goodbye my little
yellow monster.
 
Bob C
[Posted in FML issue 4455]