Stoned on Ferrets

I got high on ferrets this morning. It was purely accidental; I am not an addict.
My doctor sent me to a phlebotomist to have some blood drawn (a nice pen and ink rendering), and on the way home, I stopped by the pet–supply store to pick up some dog and cat food. After I loaded the shopping cart with ridiculously expensive food, I made my way to the checkout counter, but was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a small horde of young ferrets romping around in a large Plexiglas enclosure.
Watching ferrets at play is mesmerizing, kinetic cuteness in wild abandon. I think ferret activity is synonymous with the word fun. Perhaps it is because a ferret’s lifespan is only about five to eight years that they try to cram as much joy and activity into every minute they have.
The enclosure in which they were housed was opened on top, and I couldn’t resist sticking my arm in and interacting with the six critters inside. They showed no fear and immediately flung themselves on my arm, clinging to it like rats on a rope. I began rubbing small, furry tummies, eliciting small squeaks of delight from the beady-eyed, pink-nosed land otters. To my astonishment, I discovered ferrets are natural phlebotomists. Diminutive, needlelike claws dug into my forearm, and tiny beads of blood popped through my skin, but I felt no pain. I believe those young balls of happiness were injecting some sort of ferret heroin into my bloodstream because the more I bled, the giddier I became. What a rush. Forty minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, drawing me out of my ferret-induced bliss.
“You want to buy a ferret?” said a skinny young man with a bad hairdo.
“Uh…” I stammered, “How much are they?”
“One hundred and twenty nine dollars,” he said.
As I thought about making the expenditure, another thought crowed in my brain. “My wife will kill me if a buy a ferret.” I told the clerk I’d have to think about it, and then asked if it would be Ok if I came back tomorrow for another fix.

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Max

A short while ago, while driving home from the veterinarian’s office I began to cry. Minutes before, I held the old beagle that lived with me as he took his last breath, finishing his string of days with the help of a lethal injection. I killed him, and no matter how well intentioned that act may have been, I have to accept the karma of playing God.

Max came to live with me when he was one year old. He was an abandoned toy, purchased by well-meaning parents as a Christmas gift for their children. Like many children, they lost interest in Max once he outgrew his puppy cuteness, and he was spending his days locked in a garage without companionship and stimulation. My mother, who lived next door, spoke to the people about Max’s situation, and they said they would be happy to give the dog to someone. Of course, mom called me. My wife and I already had four dogs living with us, but once we met Max, we knew we’d find room for one more.

Max brought joy to our lives. He was curious, crazy, funny, loving, laid back, and demanding when it came to matters of a culinary nature. Before he became crippled with arthritis, he would leap into our bed every night and lie next to me waiting for his evening tummy message. He was the only dog that has lived with us who found my ear canals to be fascinating; he would tongue-scrub them nightly with great attention to detail. I never had to use Q-Tips for the longest time. Max got along well with other animals; he was never aggressive, mean, or afraid. The world was a curiosity to him. He would approach horses and cats with equal magnanimity; neither children nor adults caused him any uneasiness.

If Max had a fault, I guess it might be his anal retentiveness. His bark (which was actually a howl) would echo throughout the house whenever there was a slight change in his routine. A certain bark would mean, “Hey, you left the toilet lid closed, and I’m thirsty.” One of his favorite spots on hot and humid summer days was the floor in the step-down shower. If anyone left a bottle of shampoo or a washcloth on the shower floor, he would howl until I came in and picked it up. He used to love to lie on the bed in our bedroom and take a nap under the ceiling fan. If he awoke and found himself to be alone in the room, he would issue a command for company or to be taken off the bed so he could rejoin the pack. In the evenings when I was reading or watching television, Max would jump up on my lap, roll over on his back and nudge my hand until I would softly stroke his stomach. This would go on for hours or until my muscles cramped up. There was never a day that I didn’t feel grateful Max had come into my life.

Last December, Max turned 14, and with his advanced age came advanced health problems. Arthritis stealthily robbed him of most of his ambulatory functions. Liver problems arose. Recently, he became incontinent; his quality of life plummeted. I didn’t want him to suffer, and I didn’t want him to die, but I tried to make the decision about killing my dog not about what I wanted, but about what was best for him. I asked him if he was ready to go several times, but received no firm answer. Ultimately, I had to answer for him, and I will have to answer for his death.

Max died in my arms with my lips on his tri-colored head. Of course, a little bit of me died with him. I will pick up his cremated remains in about a week, and he will take his place alongside Emmutt and Roxie.

As I drove home with tears in my eyes, the sky opened up and cried.

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