A couple of weeks ago I posted an article about our 4 year old ferret,
Nolan. One day, instead of hearing him bounding down the stairs in his
usual manner after waking up I found him at the top of the stairs very weak
and very cold. It didn't take long to realize that he was in a very serious
state, so my wife and I rushed him to the vet. His temperature had dropped
to 92 degrees, and he appeared to be in shock. The doctor gave him a
steroid injection and held him overnight in an incubator. I sincerely
believed that he wouldn't make it until morning. Surprisingly, the next
morning the vet told us that he seemed much better. I took him his food,
which he seemed grateful for, and he ate it heartily. After he was strong
enough, a blood test was taken (which came back normal) and he came home.
Later that day he had a repeat of his earlier episode.
Again, we rushed him to the vet. He had the same symptoms, and again got
the steroids and was put in the incubator. Again, the next day he seemed
much better. In fact, he came home the next day and was pretty much his
usual self. The following nights, my wife and I would get up several times
just to check on him. He would just look at us and go back to sleep,
probably thinking "Quit bothering me, I'm fine."
For the next few days, it was as if nothing had happened to him, but I knew
that there had to be something behind what had occurred. I scheduled a
blood draw with our usual, ferret experienced vet in order to rule out
insuloma. He was fine last Tuesday morning when I took him in for the test,
although he seemed a little peeved that he didn't get to eat anything for a
few hours before the blood draw. A quick examination showed a normal
temperature and heart, and everything seemed fine.
I was shocked when Nolan was brought back into the exam room after the blood
draw. I asked if he was under anesthetic, and the doc told me no, just that
Nolan didn't tolerate the blood draw very well, but that he should snap out
of it and be fine. I stayed in the exam room and held him for several
minutes, hoping he'd bounce back. He just stayed on my lap, breathing
heavily and making frantic motions every once in a while to try and get
down. I was assured by our vet that he seemed to be regaining strength, so
I took him home.
Once at home, I just held him against my chest as he continued to get worse.
I really didn't know what to do, since the vet had given him a steroid
injection and there was nothing more that could be done if he went into
shock again. He began to labor his breathing, and sporadically thrashed
around before going limp. I was really, really scared, and all I could do
was hold him and talk to him. I tried to comfort him as much as possible
while he began to sigh loudly. Finally, he let out a big, loud, sigh and
closed his eyes for the last time.
The pathology report revealed that Nolan suffered from liver cancer.
Apparently, the tumors would hemorrhage, sending him into shock. I guess
that the ordeal of the blood draw caused severe hemorrhaging. I know that
it had to be painful for him, and I am just so sorry I couldn't do anything.
Nolan was very special, very sweet, and totally innocent. He would usually
be curled up on my lap as I read the FML, and I tolerated uncomfortable
seating positions to keep from disturbing him. Every morning, he would be
up on top of his condo, patiently waiting to be let out to begin the day.
He would follow me downstairs to the kitchen, eagerly awaiting his daily
Sustical fix. I'll miss him laying on his back looking at me while I waited
for the Sustical to be warmed up in the microwave, and then frantically
running back and forth with anticipation when the bell went off and I
carried it to the little scale I weighed him with every day.
His sock ball that he would juggle on top of the condo has been put away
along with his other toys. Maila, his female companion, won't use Nolan's
hammock; maybe she expects him to be in it. I know I do. I'll miss him.
---
Randy A. Brown
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[Posted in FML issue 1547]
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