Although I have been a subscriber and faithful lurker for more than two
years, I have never posted to this list.  But now I come to you with a
broken heart.  On Tuesday, we lost a beloved furchild.
 
We started with one.  Later, we added three -- orphans from Troy Lynn
Eckert's Ferret Family Services shelter in Manhattan, Kansas.  They are
all precious to us, and each unique, but this is Petey's story.
 
Petey was a beautiful sable.  I mean, they're all beautiful, but Petey just
had the shape and the lines and you could look at him for hours and think,
yeah, he's gorgeous, he's so elegant, just what a ferret ought to look
like.  He was always more mellow and "sedate" than the others.  Scoop him
up and he melted into your embrace.  A gentle soul, a cuddler, soft and
easy, sweet and affectionate.  Maybe it was because he was insulinomic,
maybe it was just his personality.  Who cares.
 
Sit in a chair and Petey, inevitably, found his way into your lap.  Holding
Petey was contentment itself.  Stretched out, long and langourous, he would
rest his head on your chest.  Ease your finger under a paw and he would
curl his claws and grasp it like an infant.  He was dreadfully
uncoordinated -- when he war-danced, he fell over (and then look around
like "I meant to do that").  His special talent was "flat ferret".  He was
a darling and a delight.  My husband dubbed him "Cadillac Pete" because, he
said, Petey was long and sleek and built for comfort.  To me, well, he was
just my "Sweet Pete".
 
Petey's problems became evident last fall (insulinoma -- classic symptoms).
He underwent pancreatic surgery in October, endured a rugged couple of
weeks, and then he was like a different little guy.  We had a good -- no,
great -- few months.  He took prednisone and dextrose solution twice daily.
And he did real well for a while.  Recently, he started slowing down.  A
couple of weeks ago, he stopped eating and drinking.  I called our vet --
oh no!  she's out of town for the week attending a professional conference.
Her partner, who was honest enough to admit he didn't feel
ferret-competent, referred us to another vet who "saw a lot of ferrets".
Unfortunately, that vet was clueless.  For the last week, we hand-fed Petey
with a syringe, first duck soup, then when he refused that, pedialyte and
Ensure.  We rearranged our schedules, set the clock at night, got up to
feed him every 3-4 hours.  He was emaciated, skin and bones.  We held him
for hours, walked with him, cuddled and reassured him -- "such a sweet boy,
mommy/daddy loves you so much, it's going to be okay, we'll get you well
again...".  Our vet returned; early Tuesday morning we finally connected.
"Bring him in immediately," she said.  I shed my jammies, pulled on some
clothes and grabbed the car keys.  Before we left the house, Petey
surprised me with ferret kisses -- the first I'd had from him in weeks --
little tongue all over my nose and chin and cheeks.  We arrived at the
vet's office, she gently and carefully examined him, and identified several
potential problems.  "I'm going to have to go in.  If we do nothing, he's
going to die," she said.  I agreed; there was no choice.  I kissed and
hugged him, and told him I loved him, and promised everything would be all
right.  Our vet called three hours later.  Petey died on the table.
 
We went back to her office the next morning.  Petey was brought to us
wrapped in a soft towel.  I held him, and buried my face in his fur, and
smelled his ferrety fragrance, and cried and cried and cried.  My husband,
macho cowboy that he is, did the same.  Our vet talked to us about what she
found (she had told me on the phone but I was too distraught to grasp any
of it).  Petey was a medical mess.  Surprisingly, the only thing that
didn't show up was regrowth of pancreatic tumors.  He had enlarged and
cancerous adrenal glands, obstructions in the digestive tract, spleen and
liver problems.  The surgery went well right up until the end -- but he
went into cardiac arrest, and died.
 
Three days later, I'm still crying.  I miss him so much.  What could I have
done differently, could I have spared him the pain and distress of those
last days?  My arms feel so empty and all I can think of is how badly I
want to feel his sweet little furry body against my chest again.  I want
Petey kisses.  I want to see him war-dance and stumble and fall over.
Although I know the answer to the questions, I keep asking -- when does it
get better, when will it stop hurting so much.
 
Dear god, I hope that Rainbow Bridge is real.  Sweet little Pete, please be
there to meet us.  Until then, eat all the treats we couldn't let you have.
Dook, and run races, and perform feats of great agility.  Please know how
very much we love you, and if we didn't do all the right things, understand
it was only our ignorance and never bad intentions.  Thank you for the
love, the laughter, the comfort, and all the joy you brought us.  You are
sorely missed, my little one.  Good-bye, Petey.  We will never forget you
or stop missing you -- we look forward to when we meet again.
 
Thank you, fellow FML members, for listening.  My heart aches for all who
have endured the loss of a dear furchild.
 
Norma
[log in to unmask]
forever in my heart...
[Posted in FML issue 2678]