The most beautiful physical thing about Petals was her coat.  It was thick
and very, very white.  Each strand seemed to glow from within.  Individual
hairs stood out clearly from each other and shimmered slightly as I stroked
her head.  Her fur looked opalescent in the light.
 
When she first came to me as a youngster, Petal's coat was very different.
It was short in many places, absent in others, a result of near starvation.
This "adept predator" was found "hunting" for a handout in a neighbor's
garage.  She'd lost over one third of her body weight, and though she was an
intact female, apparently couldn't sustain estrus on zero caloric intake.
 
Petals did absolutely nothing for the next three days but eat and sleep.
She had no personality, only an appetite and an overriding need for rest.
Then she came into heat and I had her spayed.  As her health improved, her
spirit returned.  She played with everybody, at every invitation, and with
total abandon.  Often, when no invitation was forthcoming, she played on her
own.  Her slightly twisted palate left her nose slanting to the right of her
two pink eyes and gave her a comical look that I could never resist.  She
was always figuring things out after everyone else did, but like her twisted
nose, I found this endearing.  Over time her coat came back and flourished.
I loved her, and we lived this way, for seven years.
 
A few months ago, she developed a persistent cough and I had my veterinarian
perform an ultrasound.  The news was not good.  The walls of her heart were
thickened and her lungs we full of fluid.  Lasix and Enacard were prescribed
and did relieve her symptoms but nothing could be done to halt, or even
slow, the progression of the disease and the deterioration of her heart.
 
I took her back to my vet to have her put down on Monday, but she seemed to
pick up and we decided to increase her dosage of these medicines.  I was
hoping that she would improve, or at least maintain the level of activity I
saw at the vet's office Monday, but in retrospect, I think she was more
excited about a new place than really feeling better.  Higher dosages of her
medicine did not help.  Petals lost interest in eating and could only walk a
few feet before she would collapse in total exhaustion, her sides heaving.
I called to make her last appointment yesterday.
 
I wanted so much to put her carrier in the front seat of my car, so I could
see her during that last trip to the vet's office.  But I couldn't put aside
my fears of being pulled over for some thoughltless traffic violation.
"Officer, this is my dying ferret, please don't take her." The horror of
that possibility won out and I put her carrier in the back seat, under a
blanket.  I would not have anything get in the way of gently ending her
pain.
 
I stroked her beautiful coat as I held her and said good-bye.  Hopefully the
sound of my voice and my caresses eased any fears she might have had.  My
veterinarian kindly wrapped her in a box for me, and placed a beautiful
sprig of Toyon berries on top.  He asked me if I was O.K then told me to
take her home, that nothing was owed him for his services: two unsolicited
acts of kindness that will not be forgotten.
 
Petals rode home with me last night on the front seat of my car.  We buried
her next to two other ferrets and the family dog.  She'd spent 7 years as a
fugitive in California, innocent of all of the charges against her.  She'd
never bitten anyone, never eaten a kangaroo rat, never harmed a soul.
 
Nothing can harm her now.
 
[FP]
[Posted in FML issue 1768]