Friday Ferretblogging: Brotherly Love Edition

To properly blog ferrets, you need a video camera.

Stripe, the gray one, has been very sick these past few days. It wasn’t supposed to work like that. When we brought him home from the shelter, he looked more like Little Joe up there than like our old skinny baby, Fox, and anyway Fox was the ill-tempered sickly ferret. We expected him to die two years ago.

But two weeks ago, with all the drama I’ve come to expect from anything living in this house, Stripe lost half his body weight, most of his tail fur, all his desire to eat and play, and has only wanted to lay on my lap or on the couch. He crashed (blood sugar dangerously low, very lethargic) on Monday (or maybe Tuesday, it’s kind of blurry) and the best vet on earth got him back up to normal with some fluids and antibiotics. The blood work he’s had (more than me, now, officially) indicates it’s not adrenal disease, but I think it is anyway, based on the tail fur loss. Long story short, the best vet ever thinks he has the flu, and is just stressed out and should become well again if cared for properly.

Cue four nights of grinding up his kibble in the blender we got for our wedding, thinning it with water and forcing it into him so he can throw it back up, pushing fluids every half hour, waking him up to check if he’s still breathing, all the nervous-no-not-nervous-more-like-psychotic mom stuff I excel at. X-rays on something as small as he is (now) shouldn’t be as expensive as they are, and I told myself I wasn’t gonna be one of these pet people, but when something that snuggled you after the election needs tests, you hand over the credit card without question. At least, I do. I am these pet people. I just sent the vet’s kid to college and if his other kid needs it, I’m fully prepared to shell out the tuition. Just fix my 40-ounce furball, please.

Every day I think he’s on the mend (oh, does he ever hate the antibiotics, and oh do we ever have two weeks of them left to give him) he decides to barf in his brother’s bed; every day I reconcile myself to his death (he’s five, not ancient for a ferret but not young either) he’s up at the crack of dawn bouncing around. Little Joe and Fox have been sleeping in with him every night. I come in each morning and one of them, at least, is curled around him, keeping watch.