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Weblog | About Site | Perri | Darla | Links | Archives | Rainbow Bridge Below are tributes to the ferrets, albino and otherwise, who have come into my life since I started ferretkeeping in 1987. Perri has his own section- here you will find the others who have passed on to the Bridge, where we hope to meet them again one day. In case you're curious about the concept of the Rainbow Bridge, you can read the comforting story here. I also recommend this lovely poem, which has both made me cry and given me the strength to make very difficult decisions. Please take time to visit the little memorial page I made for all of the ferrets listed below.
Ferrina was the reigning ferret in our household until Perri joined it in April 1989. She accepted him immediately, although she might have had cause to regret her decision once he grew into a big, husky boy capable of dragging her around. I left home at periodic intervals, taking Perri with me, and each time we returned for holidays, Ferrina would react like he was a brand new arrival, gripping his scruff while he explored his surroundings. Once he'd seen all he wanted to, however, Perri would turn on her, scruff her, and drag her out of sight behind a bookcase or dresser. He was probably the reason why she hated baby ferrets forever after: she knew that the cute little kits grew up into big boys who didn't tolerate her nitpicking. Oddly, whenever we saved her from being used as an oversized toy by the male ferrets (Perri, Dodger, and later, Junior) she would reward her saviour with a nip on the hand!!! Talk about ungrateful :) Ferrina was not prone to climbing or knocking things over, so as long as someone was home, she had the run of the place. When my dad got up for his job at 4:30 am, he could always count on her to hear him, come running from her bed in the top drawer of our buffet set, and keep him company. Ferrina went to the Rainbow Bridge in October 1995. She is still missed, especially by my brother. Perri (1989-1994) See his section.
Dodger joined our family in July 1990, and in a matter of months grew from a tiny, white-footed sable kit to a huge but gentle giant. I bought him from a local pet store as company for Perri, who was alone in his cage for hours on end while I attended university classes. As a baby, Dodger had a set of lungs on him. When I first brought him home, Ferrina attacked him so viciously that I was afraid of keeping him with her or the even bigger Perri. So I put him in his own airport carrier style cage which pushed up against the bigger one so that he could see the others, hoping that would curb any sense of loneliness. Nothing doing. He cried as I've never heard a baby ferret cry before or since. I observed that he and Perri seemed to play well together when supervised, so I nervously put him in with the much bigger albino. Perri reacted with delight: he fussed over seven week old Dodger, licking his face and romping with him. They remained best friends thereafter. Dodger as an adult was the biggest male I've seen before or since. But he was so placid in temprament that he never attempted to assume the alpha male role. I guess he found butt-kicking too strenuous. When Perri went to the Rainbow Bridge in April 1994, Dodger fell into a deep depression. He wouldn't eat or play, and lost both weight and vigour. But constant love and attention from my brother and I brought him around, and he gradually rallied. He never did become overly playful again, instead assuming a quiet dignity. In late 1996, he became lethargic and began grinding his teeth. We took him to the vet, where insulinoma was diagnosed. Management of his diet (medication was not suggested back then) kept his blood sugar levels fairly stable, and he died in his sleep in July 1997 without ever experiencing the terrible seizures that so many insulinomic ferrets go through. Dodger retains a special place in my heart and memories.
The picture on the left shows Winnie in the foreground (smallest ferret) with Dodger to her left and Junior in the background. She was a mischievous white footed sable who relished her role as the only girl in a household of only male ferrets. She was friendly with me, but like Ferrina before her, completely devoted to my brother. I bought her at a downtown pet shop for Derek in October 1995, a couple of weeks after Ferrina went to the Bridge. She was the last one left in the critter pen, overlooked because of her tiny size. I took one look at her and knew who would love her if given a chance. The moment I laid her in Derek's arms they were the best of buddies, and inseparable for the rest of her life. Winnie was a charmer. One of my brother's girlfriends had a male ferret whom she took along with her when visiting, and Winnie had him at her beck and call within minutes. Dodger took a fatherly interest in her, and Junior assumed a jealous boyfriend attitude whenever a rival for her affections came into the picture. After Dodger passed away in 1997, Winnie and Junior ruled the household without competition until 2002. They used to sleep with me on nights when I crashed on the living room sofa, Winnie preferring to snuggle around my neck. In early 2002 she was diagnosed as insulinomic. Knowing that her time was limited, my brother took her into his room at night and dispensed her Pediapred twice a day without fail. She remained strong and fairly active right up until the night of July 6, 2002, when she underwent a sudden seizure so terrible that the only humane thing was to take her to the vet and help her over the Bridge. We miss Winnie's flirty presence to this day and hope she misses us too, although she's likely too busy teasing the boys at the Bridge.
Junior, a large dark-eyed white, was a part of our household for nine cherished years. His loss is so recent that it's difficult to type these words. Junior, whose full name was Perri Jr, came into our lives in May 1994, when I was grieving over Perri's unexpected loss. I saw him in a local pet store, and was struck not only by his white coat but also his vibrant personality. When I reached into the pen to pet him, he raced up my arm as if to say, "I'm going home with you, no questions asked!!" Even at six weeks old, he had a determined personality. The moment I brought him home and let him out of his box, he leaped onto the sofa, rushed toward a curious Dodger, and did a defiant weasel war dance, as if to say, "Come on, I dare you!!!" Junior was a bundle of energy most of his life. If I was sitting on the living room sofa, doing anything but paying him the attention he felt was his due, he'd chirp and dook noisily, then rush up my back onto my shoulder. Once I asked my brother and his friend to take Junior into another room and play with him til he was worn out. The boys were the ones who tired first. He was the ultimate alpha ferret, beating the crap first out of Ferrina, then Winnie, then, years later, Jasper, Maggie, and Darla, our current ferrets. Once he asserted his dominance, he befriended all of them, and woe betide any four-footed visitors who tried their luck with any of his pals. I had a bad scare in December 2000, when Junior started vomiting and became lethargic. I rushed him to the vet, where X-rays indicated that he had a foreign object blocking his intestine. Surgery removed the object, which turned out to be a piece of rubber that he must have chewed off of a ball. During his convalesence, he became so addicted to being held and cuddled that he became a total lap ferret and remained so for the rest of his days. One of his nicknames was "pet rock", because the moment he found a warm lap, regardless of how long he'd been out of his cage, he camped down there and went to sleep. In 2001, he displayed symptoms that I recognized as insulinoma, having gone through it with Dodger. I regulated his diet, and he trotted along symptom-free until the summer of 2002, when he developed a weakness in his hindquarters and began drooling and grinding his teeth. I put him on Pediapred and took him into my bed at night. We were devoted 'bed buddies': he loved to stretch across my neck or nestle under my arm. When feeling ill, he'd actually lick my face and hands to wake me up so I could give him food or medicine, whatever the situation warranted. The old warrior became a complete love bug, sleeping in my arms during the day and keeping me company when I worked at home late at night. Junior left me to cross the Rainbow Bridge in December 2002, while in his ninth year. I still have a difficult time coping with his loss, especially late at night, which was typically 'our time'. The pain is lessening slightly as time passes, but he'll never be forgotten. The other ferrets at the Bridge had better watch out: the Boss is now in town.
She, Jasper, and Darla were an inseparable trio. Maggie actively mothered the other two, grooming them while they slept. If she heard a toy being squeaked, she went into maternal hyperalert, worried that a baby was in distress. My mother had a stuffed gorilla that made a screeching noise when squeezed. When Maggie heard it, she would come running, grab the gorilla from the offender's hands, and drag it into the cage, where she'd tuck it lovingly in a hammock. When Jasper, Darla, and I moved to Hamilton, Derek bought a butterscotch colored female kit named Martha to keep Maggie company. Maggie was delighted to have a 'real' baby of her own, and the two quickly became inseparable. Maggie went to the Rainbow Bridge in March 2007. She had advanced adrenal disease, and although surgery was performed, she failed to rally in the aftermath. I was so upset when I got the message from my parents, but I guess the old saying is true, "God supercharges their batteries because they're not with us as long." RIP Maggie. I miss you.
He had some weird habits that endeared us to him all the more. He adopted a stuffed husky that I'd had for years, and dragged it into his favorite hiding spot whenever he found it out of place. The obsession extended to include two toy ferrets that I bought to decorate my futon bed. Many mornings I woke up to find them missing, tucked safely away in Jasper's hideaway.He would even snatch them directly from my hands when I was sitting down holding them. I yielded to his delightful determination and let him keep them. Once he grew out of the 'crazy kit' stage, Jasper was a cuddly sweetheart. His coat lightened until he became a fully-fledged dark-eyed white. He was a big, cuddly boy, fond of waking me up in the morning by digging gently at my feet or climbing on the pillow to kiss my cheek. His favorite game was climbing into a plastic grocery bag and getting me to swing him around before dumping him on the sofa or bed. He'd do a weasel war dance, then jump right back into the bag for another round. In August 2006 I noticed that he was gaining weight at an alarming rate, gasping during his sleep, and seeming more tired than usual. Concerned, I took him to the vet, where they ran some tests and gave me the shattering news that he had cardiomyopathy. There was no cure, but his symptoms could be managed for a time with medication. Three times a day I faithfully gave him his medicine, which included a diuretic to keep the fluid levels down. He remained cheerful throughout the entire ordeal, even when I had to take him to the vet every other month to drain excess fluid from his abdomen. Even the vet marveled at how alert he was, telling me that his demeanor totally belied the severity of his condition. Jasper continued to enjoy life right up until April 25, 2007, when he left me in his sleep and joined the others at the Bridge. I was devastated beyond words. When his ashes were returned to me in a lovely urn, Samson, Darla, and I paid homage to it each morning. I know he's still with us in spirit, and one day we'll all meet again.
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Ferrina
(1987-1995)
Dodger
(1990-1997)
Winnie
(1995-2002) 
Junior
(1994-2002)
Maggie
(2002-2007)
Jasper
(2002- 2007)
