I wasn't going to come on and comment about anything much, because I'm still spinning here. But as some of my friends know, recently I was not well before we lost Rocky. And as the days go on now, I'm feeling worse each day, not better. So, truth be told, this post is for me, not Sean. For the first time in six years, I need this to be me. I loved Rocky more than anything in my life. I feel like I loved him three fold. I loved him through my eyes, my sons eyes, and the worlds eyes. I gave Sean all I had for all these last months. It paid off. He is doing beautifully so far. Scott is healing quietly and is healthy. Chet is just fine. I am not fine. I'm not fine at all.

Anyway. God, I didn't want to burden you with a bunch of gobbly goop. But I realized this wouldn't help unless I share it with someone. Like I said, I feel compulsively selfish right now.

I know most people are not strong enough or are not willing to read such memorials. They glance through them. Only a few will, anyway. And I feel better already knowing that I'm just putting the events and my feelings "out there".

Why did he live eight long months after receiving a death sentence of lymphoma? How was he able to contently lull about in Sean's arms and toddle after him for towel rides while carrying such a heavy burden as cancer? Why did he always look as if he were smiling.

All the while, I wondered how was I to know when it was going to be "time". Especially when he still had such a spark in his eyes even through the two times he was on deaths door during this illness. I'll never forget all the months of actually walking into a room and secretly wishing that when I put my hand into that sleep sack that I'd find him asleep, forever. But no. Each time I slipped my hand into the covers, a warm breathing Rocky was found. Then I'd hold my breath as I took him out of his sack until I saw he was truly still okay. Day after day I'd examine him to see if his breathing was okay, and struggled with the deciding if his eyes were just old and tired or if they were squinted in pain. I prayed that he wasn't hiding great pain from us and hanging on despite some imagined obligation to Sean. I prayed that he was simply choosing to still be here because it was worth a little pain to him so he could stay where he was happiest ... by that little boys side.

I'm not going into the specifics about his health during this past year and what he did or didn't endure and how he survived right now. And I don't need to tell you how he lived. You already know. He lived spectacularly.

I suppose what's left is that you might want to have some peace of mind about how he died.

The immediate events leading up to his death are as follows:
Rocky acted fine his last month and I took his last video shot of him three days ago by a Christmas tree in Sean's arms. We became aware that he was in some kind of pain that/this week. He was grinding. But he ran and he played as well as any sick old fella could. That last morning was like any other morning. That last afternoon, he was groomed, clipped, cleaned preened over. However late in the afternoon I walked into a room and saw blood splattered all over the floor, blankets, walls, etc. After a panicked exam of each ferret, I finally discovered that the blood came out of Rocky's mouth somehow. I turned to see him not quite get to the litter pan in time, and his stool was black. I let out a terrible sigh. He was bleeding internally. I watched incredulously as he walked about and then nibbled on some turkey kibbles while I tried to grasp what was happening. The image of what I was seeing and the reality of what was happening didn't match. But he was very, very tired. Something was a miss. I knew that. But he still seemed okay despite what I was seeing. aren't you supposed to "know" when it's time? Aren't they supposed to tell you? Wouldn't his eyes be dim? This makes no sense. How could I think of putting him to sleep. I feel like I'm killing him.

I called to Scott and Chet to talk to them one by one. In tears, I then ran to the phone to desperately seek out a friend who has always been there for me when on of my little buddies has had to leave and I can't quite get a grip on the situation and if I am struggling with the right thing to do. At this late stage in life, you'd think I'd know by now and get a clue that if I'm going out of my way to interrupt this sweet lady's life ... that it's time. History had proven it to be so. But what if I was wrong. He was full of life! This makes no sense whatsoever. But with a little talking, and a little support, I decided it was time.

Lucky, lucky, lucky ... lucky that all the pieces fell into the right places that hour. Thank God my Scott was home. I have been sick. On top of that I was in pieces, how could I have driven? Sean needed BOTH of us during this time as well as his brother.

I found Rocky in the nick of time and he was not choking yet or panicked. The very special "m'kay vet" (private joke, feel free to ask) was working that day and still at the office at that late hour. Boy. Talk about things aligning up perfectly.

So I sat down and broke the news to Sean between sobs. He was shocked. He asked how did I know it was time. "He's not "that" old yet", he stubbornly told me. I told him how I knew. I had to tell him about the blood. But he still didn't understand or quite believe me that it was this bad. I had to tell him how sick Rocky's been for so very long (and he knew that, but this knowledge magically disappeared at that moment). He still thought it could be "fixed". And I was glancing at the clock wringing my hands, because I had to get him to understand this, accept it, say goodbye, gather everything and everyone up, and get to that office all in a matter of a very short period of time. I finally had to do what I vowed not to do. I told him that Rocky had cancer. I thought, okay, that he'll understand. His eyes got big and he said, "What?! You knew and you let him live with cancer?" Oh shoot here comes a whole new can of worms. I had no idea he felt this strongly about euthanasia in these cases. So I went on to tell him about "remission". That he wasn't in pain in the latest months until now, etc. He swallowed it all down, the good boy that he is, and went to spend some alone moments with Rocky. Scott and I sat with our coats, nervously watching that clock. Finally he came up with Rocky wrapped in his favorite blanket, with two crocheted eggs. The two of the many that he and his brother had just fought over ironically.

And now to what you are probably nervously curious about. His actual passing. I've never seen any soul pass away like that. I mean EVER. He had a little shot in his hind end. He squeaked a little of course. Then he quickly fell asleep in Sean's arms. Like really asleep. Then the vet shaved a little bit of hair off his arm, and in went a tiny needle. The vet pushed the medication ... and it so help me, it seemed like it was less than 10 seconds later when she softly said ..."and his heart has stopped beating". I was stunned. No flinch. No reflexive movments. Not even a last breath. Nothing. He just ... "passed". My gosh he was had to have been so ready. He was tired. And my "m'kay" vet came through for me exactly like I always dreamed she would by God. She got on her knees down to Sean, with an arm around him and near his face exchanged a few words. I didn't hear them. My mind was in the midst of a loud scream that no one else could seem to hear. Then she left us alone in the room. Rocky stayed oddly warm the entire time we were there. Sean bent over him and cried openly. I held Rocky's little paw. Scott ran his hand over his soft fur on his back. We both stood back we didn't feel welcome to touch Sean much and gave them some space. We were actually there for quite a while. Then next thing I knew, Sean sat up, then stood up, and began some sort of ceremony. He took Rocky's crocheted eggs and put one in there with him in the blanket, then he put the other next to his heart and draped his one leg and paw over it. He smoothed all his fur out with his hands, put his tail where he thought it should be, and adjusted his legs and body into position. Finally he carefully placed each piece of blanket over him. I watched Scott who stood there with his mouth gaping open. I've not quite ever seen my husbands face like that. I wish I could explain it. It almost looked like .... well someone who saw ... well God. I quickly turned my attention back to Sean and Rocky. Before Rocky's little face was covered, I noticed that despite all of Sean's preparations and smoothing out his fur, Rocky still had a white spot devoid of some guard hairs on top of his head from so many kisses that Sean obsessively gave him every day of his life. Sean announced that it was time to go. I called the nurse in and he handed the bundle over, and we left him there. So cozy. Still warm. He will be returned to us soon and kept in a special urn. And his beloved things will be kept in another urn.

I have kept all of your letters of condolences since last spring when I told you all about Rocky's fate. I saved every last one of them. They are in a folder. I saved them for this day. So I could print them off and hand every last one of them over to Sean.

The Many Letters of Condolence that Wolfy and Sean received.

Thank you for taking care of my little boy and family over these years. A close friend said that this all began one Christmas, when Sean connected with ferrets and earned Rocky. Rocky came into my little boy's life and changed it forever. They each got a second chance. And now as I said, Sean has given him the greatest gift of all this Christmas. So please, don't be sad for Rocky. Never has a passing been so easy. And Sean is doing great. He has no regrets about any decisions. I want people to think of a little boy that's grown up into a young man who will always have that little angel over his shoulder this Christmas.

Sean and Rocky Forever.
Wolfy