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]