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There are many ways ferrets go. They are euthanized.
They go to sleep and never wake up. Sometimes they go semi comatose
and put you through hell while they make faces and body movements
for which you are never sure what they mean. They linger like that
for awhile while you try to reach your vet or at least an emergency
clinic to put them down. Looking for a vet in an emergency situation
causes even more anxiety because you just don't know if they know
the difference between the liver and the spleen or if he will
increase the suffering he is trying to end.
Death is part of life. None of us get out of here alive. But what is
the cost, emotionally and physically when we play God or even just
witness the never ending deaths of these innocent little beings we
call ferrets. Ferrets, who should never have been created on this
earth for such a short time, with half of their life span sick and
dying. You make that conscious choice to rescue ferrets and commit
to them, be there for them when it's their time to die. They can't
tell you when they hurt, and to what degree. They can't tell you
what medicine they need to make them feel better and they can't tell
you when they've had enough and just want to go. Certainly not in
the two days you're cramming nasty meds down their throat and
injecting them with things that prolong their pathetic horrific
quality of life until you realize that it's time. So I try to
be...aware. Better to let them go two days early than one day late.
Unfortunately the only way you figure that out is through
experience. I guess that would make them guinea pigs in a sense. I
am guilty of keeping them with me longer they I should and I would
prefer not to do it again, but I do. For one, because I hate playing
God and two, I will never know for sure when it's the exact time to
let them go. There is no exact time. It's just that we want them to
live so badly - at all costs. Such a terribly selfish act. To ease
our pain at the expense of theirs. I've been through scores of them
by now and you would think I would learn to detach and handle them
with less emotion, less panic, less tears, just less.
Maybe I do. Maybe there is just so many, that the sorrow never goes
away.
Then there's always the worry about having access to your vet. What
if it happens at midnight? 2:00am? On his day off? Since there
aren't very many ferret vets, you can't run to the nearest corner
clinic and quickly put them to sleep. Often times they'll linger for
hours and die by the time you finally find someone to help you. So
we add that other little nagging worry to the list of anxieties that
fester, wondering if my own vet will be available when it's time to
end their suffering.
Given there are so many sick ferrets here, you just never know from
one day to the next what you will wake up to. There is this constant
low level ever-present anxiety at every waking moment. You must be
thinking I've made myself into a martyr by now. Poor me. Feel sorry
for me. Look at what I give up for all these ferrets. Read on and
I'll get to that later.
So then it happens. Here we go again. A ferret I've been watching. I
know the sign. The lump in my stomach forms and the dread begins to
surface. The panic to rise. He's not doing well. Been to the doctor,
he's already on medication, and gravy. Lord, God, thank you for the
gravy. You know he's old but he still has some spunk, bright eyes,
knows when I'm there and chases after me for a bit of play, maybe he
has a little more quality of life left if you can get him over this
"hump." But if you REALLY know about ferrets, you know that unless
you open them up, you never truly know if it's a "hump" or if they
are riddled with cancer and you are doing them an injustice by
keeping them alive. That's the injustice. It's unfair. You just
don't know. Add that to the ever-present anxiety.
And so the dreadful day is here. You wake up and take care of
everyone like any other day. Change litter, soiled bedding, poop in
front of the boxes, prepare gravy, meds, hand feedings, accommodate
the demanding kids wanting your attention. Then you walk to the cage
where your sick guy is. You don't know what you'll find so you wait
until everyone is taken care of. You do this because, if you need
the time to take care of him, you don't have to worry about all the
others that need to be cared for too. There are no volunteers here.
No one to take over. Just me. What if he’s gone? Sometimes I just
need the time to grieve, a short break without the distraction of
knowing there are so many other kids to care for. Just give me a few
minutes to cry and let some of it out before I have to get back into
taking care of business mode.
I peek and he's still here. Still alert, maybe lost a little more
weight and still having the same issues you brought him to the
doctor for. You've been hoping, and maybe a little in denial, but
now you need to call on your rational side so you are able to handle
whatever comes next. Meds aren't working fast enough and now today,
he doesn't want to eat his gravy, first time THAT has ever happened.
Not a good sign for sure. You let him out so he has the choice to
play, exercise, explore a new environment, just really anything he
wants to do so that, what you suspect might be his last hours or
minutes, are as happy, comfortable or as positive as they can be. He
gets his bath and medicine on his belly to help the urine burn and
change all his cage bedding while he's out so it's all clean for him
when he's ready to go back to bed. Sure he's dribbling thick lemon
pudding-like urine mixed with pus and yes, it's all over the floor
and blankets and toys but does it really matter? Is it really a good
enough reason to keep him locked away in his cage because you don't
want to deal with the mess? I'm tired. Tired is an understatement.
But I guess I'm not tired enough to take away his freedom.
I let him do his thing for awhile and go get laundry started, clean
some cages. My fear is that he will start to show signs of pain.
That is always such an obsessive fear for me. Death doesn't bother
me near as much as the pain and not having the ability to take it
away while we make the mad dash to the vet to euthanize. Sometimes I
think that "low level" anxiety isn't really low at all, it's just a
lie I tell myself to keep from having a breakdown.
It now dawns on me that it’s been awhile and I haven't seen him. I
go to check on him - and there is always the dread of wondering what
I will find. I see him. He's found one of the warm soft blankets
laid out on the floor of one of the rooms in the house where several
of the "special" ferrets like to go. Special usually means terminal.
There is no limit to providing whatever it is that they want and
that includes the freedom to roam wherever they please. But I
digress. My sick guy is half in, half out of the blanket - looking
at me. I go to pick him up and my blood runs cold. It's going to
happen today, I just don't know how or when. The panic begins to
rise and realization slowly penetrates the denial. His body
temperature has dropped, he is too weak to walk. I don't even
question myself anymore. I've been through it too many times. The
fear that he is in any pain overrides my ability to stay focused and
sane. Where are the pain meds?? Why can't I remember the dose
without having to look it up?? Is that a 30 unit syringe or a 1cc??
I can't see through my tears. Where are my glasses?? Please God,
please let me get the pain meds into him so he will at least sleep
peacefully until I can calm myself and figure out the best way for
him to go. Why can't I just be rational and deliberate and go
through the motions as I've done time and time again? I finally get
the meds going and seconds seems like an eternity while I wait for
them to take affect. I take him and put him in a soft sleep sack,
then lay with him on my bed while I stroke and talk to him. Well,
not exactly talk, more like pleading. By this time, I have already
paced around the house trying to calm myself enough to be sure he
has everything he needs while the tears just keep coming and coming
and coming and coming. My nose is running and I am trying so hard to
tell him how sorry I am. Did I do the right thing? Did I wait too
long? Did you know you were loved? I can't seem to apologize enough
for not being a better rescue mom. After an hour and a xanax, I lay
him on my bed, wrapped in a warm fleece - as I do all of them
because the fleece they die in, is the fleece they are cremated in -
he is still. I can't bring myself to look at him. As he faded away,
he did not look comfortable and I could not bear to look at him any
longer so I loosely wrapped the fleece around him and paced for
awhile. When I returned, I took a quick look to confirm he was gone.
I placed him back in the cage wrapped in fleece and waited for my
husband to come home and put him in the freezer. It's such a final
act. I can't do it myself.
A day in the death of a geriatric shelter ferret. Sometimes I have
time to recover. Sometimes it will start all over again the next
day.
So, the martyr thing? You have no idea how badly I wish I had never
heard of a ferret. Believe me when I say this, if I could turn back
time, I would never have started this. I would never have bought
that first ferret and never gone on to rescue them. There is no
enjoyment. It’s not even rewarding. Where is the reward of helping
ferret after ferret make it through their death with as little
discomfort and pain as possible? If there absolutely must be a
benefit, I suppose there may be some satisfaction. Satisfaction in
that, during their last few weeks or months, I may have enhanced
their life a little, shown some love and kindness and in the end,
help ease the suffering of a little critter about to die. I'm not a
saint and I don't typically give to others at my own expense. I'm
just a normal person like everyone else EXCEPT - I made the mistake
of getting involved in knowing about the horrifying, brutal, and
cruel acts committed on these poor defenseless, loving, sweet and
adorable little animals. As the late Mike Janke once told me,
euthanasia is taking their pain and making it yours. Dear God, if
that is true, for the amount of pain I suffer when I watch them die,
by comparison ferrets should feel nothing less than euphoria during
the final moments of their life. At least, I would like to believe
that.
And now you know. It is just too late. I can't go back. You can't
put the toothpaste back in the tube. I'm not a martyr. I'm a ferret
lover.
Terri Noren
Little Dudes Ferret Ranch
September 17, 2007
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