Aspen was a rescue that came to me with a vulva the size of a seedless
grape and a body weight half of what it should have been.  She was found
with her cagemate, Peter, wandering in the woods behind a housing
development.  A few days after their rescue, their owner called to get
them back.  I was appalled at their housing conditions and suspected the
mother of abandoning those stinky rodents in the woods behind her house.
I tried to offer good suggestions, but I also emphasized it was illegal
to abandon animals and I would be happy to take them if things didn't
work out.  I mentioned ferrets were illegal in town, Aspen's medical
problems were severe, and I might have exaggerated the cost of surgery
somewhat.  In any case, three days later I got a call asking me to take
both ferrets.  I was happy to do so.
 
Aspen was a Marshall Farms ferret, a sable, and was perhaps the most
timid, sweet wisp of a ferret I have ever met.  I immediately scheduled
her for an exploratory surgery; the problem had to be either an ovarian
fragment or adrenal disease, so there was no sense putting things off.
My vet removed adrenal masses from both sides, and after surgery Aspen
went on a schedule of Lupron treatments.
 
Aspen recovered rapidly, but her swollen vulva remained as large as ever.
Six months later, she went in for a second adrenal surgery and this time
both adrenals were completely removed, or as much as was possible.  This
time, the swelling went down- -not to normal, but still a significant
improvement.
 
Things went well for about 8 months.  A couple of months ago, I noticed
Aspen was losing weight.  I take weekly weights of all my ferrets and
hadn't noticed a bad drop, but she still was starting to look pinched
around the hindquarters.  I did a physical exam and noticed a hard lump
in her abdomen, so I called my vet that Monday.  I took her in Friday and
by that time, in LESS THAN A WEEK, Aspen had lost almost a fourth of her
body weight and was significantly weaker.  An x-ray showed a large
abdominal mass, so we scheduled surgery for the following Monday.  We
were both afraid that Aspen would not last the weekend.  I fed her by
hand every three hours through the entire weekend and she made it to
Monday, but I was half-convinced she wouldn't survive the surgery.
Despite my fears, she did well.  The mass was a malignant tumor that
filled nearly half the volume of her abdominal cavity and weighed a full
3 ounces.  It was ugly.
 
Aspen had all but stopped eating prior to surgery, so I was prepared to
wrestle at feeding time.  I was more than a little surprised to see her
suck down the chow like it was the last bowl of food on the planet.  I
was even more surprised to see Aspen run all over the room like she
never had surgery.  I mean, Sunday, I thought she would die, Monday, she
had surgery to remove a 3 oz tumor, and Tuesday, she is running and
war-dancing all over the place.  I still shake my head thinking about it.
Her recovery was more than remarkable; I was thinking of it as a miracle,
and I don't bandy that word around much, saving it for when I get dates
or free tacos and beer.
 
About a week after surgery, Aspen stopped pooping, showing all the signs
of a classic I ate some rubber bowel-obstruction.  Rushing her to the vet
while kicking myself in the butt, which isn't all that easy, we could
find nothing on x-rays, but I left her in the ICU in case emergency
surgery was warranted.  It wasn't, and with a little help from Captain
Ribman's Bowel Ointment (or a reasonable facsimile) and my vet's deft
touch, things started running pretty smooth.  We didn't know what caused
it, but it was resolved, so we accepted our gift with thanks.
 
Last week, things changed again.  Her vulva swelled up again.  Then I
noticed Aspen was starting to drag her foot.  I wasn't sure if she had
injured it, and she otherwise seemed fine, so I just started watching the
problem.  The next day she was dragging both feet and it was obvious the
problem was in her spinal cord.  Every day for the next week the problem
would worsen and it was clear that whatever was impacting her spinal cord
was moving up her back.  I knew she didn't have long.  She was frequently
incontinent, and I was expertly fashioning ferret diapers from women's
panty shields, which is a product I d never thought I would buy, much
less utilize (just use the wide ones, cut a hole for the tail, and hold
them in place with a piece of tape like you would a pamper).  I was
expressing her urine every few hours.  Early yesterday morning, the
problem had reached the level of her diaphragm, and Aspen's breathing
became labored and ragged.  We took a last trip to the vet, and Aspen
was released rather than being forced to suffer a slow death from
suffocation- -just hours away.  She died in my arms as I scratched
between her ears, her favorite place.
 
Until the very end Aspen was alert and happy.  Even when she couldn't
move her feet, and later even her legs, she would pull herself all over
the room.  I was worried about chaffing or friction burns, so I tried an
infernal wheeled contraption, but she hated it and would get caught on
stuff.  I discovered that if I placed her back quarters into the foot of
a woman's sheer nylon sock, cutting the top down into strips and tying
them around Aspen's waist, the nylon reduced friction so much that she
could move nearly as fast as before she lost the use of her legs.  I
called her my little sock monkey.
 
She was always alert, always had a healthy appetite, and always was very
happy for a few moments of play or cuddling.  It was tearing my heart out
to see such a sweet lady, so alert and happy, knowing that her body was
conspiring to kill her.  She never gave up, she always enjoyed every
moment, she was always sweet and gentle and so appreciative of a good
scratch.
 
Aspen's death knocked the breath out of me.  It isn't that I am a novice
to dying ferrets; I've lost 30 in the last decade.  Aspen wasn't ready
to go.  You could see in her eyes that she just wanted to run around and
smell odors never smelled before.  Even when she was starting to have a
difficult time breathing, she was eating well and pulling herself all
over the room.  I don't think I've seen many people, much less ferrets,
so happy to just exist.  She was a tiny Winston Churchill, resolving to
never, ever, ever give up.
 
Goodbye my little sock monkey, my angel.  That dark night now has a
bright new star illuminating the sky.
 
Bob C
[Posted in FML issue 4639]