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In April 1989 I walked into the pet store in New Minas Mall, (New Minas, Nova Scotia, Canada), intending to get my mind off of upcoming exams. I'd always been an animal lover, and had dogs since I was old enough to beg for one, so a shop loaded with romping puppies could de-stress me more effectively than spa visits that were beyond my financial grasp anyway. This particular day, the store was carrying a pet it normally didn't: a ferret. In 1989 the ferret was a few years away from its zenith as a popular pet, and you rarely saw them in shops outside the large cities. My brother was the proud owner of a petite sable female named Ferrina, whom a pet dealer in Halifax had to secure for him through a breeder. Ferrina was a personable little sprite who won me over to the possibility of owning a ferret myself... one day. The youngster in the New Minas pet store was an albino male of around seven weeks of age. As I peered into his cage, he stared back with those crystal-pink eyes, as curious about me as I was about him. I extended my hand cautiously: he sniffed, then took a running leap up my coat sleeve. When the laughing clerk and I fished him out, she made a comment about him having adopted me. I'd say that we adopted each other. I took him home, to my university dorm room, where he quickly became the cherished secret of the entire floor. I guess that no one had the heart to bust something so cute. I named him Perri. He had the usual rocky adolescence, nipping every toe that came within grabbing range, and driving poor Ferrina, my brother's ferret, to distraction. He grew into a big, handsome fellow with a mellow temper and a hilarious fascination with baby ferrets: when I got a second ferret, Dodger, in July 1990, Perri adopted him and guarded him zealously against (imagined) harm. We shared a lot of adventures together. Some were fun: we attended medieval costume balls where he and I were styled after the Da Vinci painting "The Lady and her Ermine". Some were not so fun: we were once in a car accident in which the driver of our vehicle was seriously injured but we escaped unharmed. Wherever we went, we attracted attention. People would ask, "Can I pet your mink?" or "Do ferrets make good pets?" or, occasionally, "Shouldn't you be wearing him around your neck instead?" In March 1994, Perri began acting aggressively toward his cagemate Dodger, gripping his scruff and mounting him. I was puzzled because he'd been neutered soon after I bought him. He also began losing patches of hair from his rump, but a veterinarian assured me that, "They all do that after a certain age when the weather gets warmer." One day, I found him crouching in the corner of his cage, straining and failing to urinate. Alarmed, I rushed him to an emergency animal clinic, where the vets succeeded in catheterizing him after great effort. I was told that his urinary tract had been blocked by crystal buildup, a condition commonly seen in cats. In hindsight, I know that he had adrenal disease. The hair loss and aggression were now-obvious symptoms. But lacking that knowledge then, I just took him home after his urinary tract had been unblocked and prayed for the best. For the following month things went well. Then one terrible right I found him straining again and gasping in obvious pain. Heart sinking, I took him to the emergency clinic again. The vets gave me the terrible news that Perri was becoming toxic, and catheterization was not working. Tears streaming down my face, I gave my consent for him to be helped to the Rainbow Bridge. I still think about Perri a lot. If only he hadn't been born during a time when veterinary science was in the dark about ferret-specific ailments. If we'd known about adrenal disease and adrenalectomies back then, I might have had four, maybe five more years with him. As it is, I have memories that no one can take away. |
