"God," I said, "Give me a sign. Tell me that this is the right thing to do."

That morning, Scrappy cried intermittently throughout the morning and crawled off into a corner for most of the day. He barely ate.

"God," I said, "Give me another sign."

Gini smiled, gently. "He doesn't give you billboards, you know," she said, hugging me. "Sometimes, the path isn't clear."

Except it was. And God spoke quite firmly.

I edited late into the night, finally packing it in around midnight or so. Scrappy was curled up in his little hammock - I had bought a fresh one for him, even though I knew he was fading fast, because he deserved it - and I had left him alone pretty much all day, letting him have his last twenty-four hours in peace.

But I couldn't go to bed without saying goodnight, so I picked him up and cuddled him.

He was completely limp. Scrappy had had another stroke.

I held him tight, arranging him so that he was comfortable - or at least what I thought was comfortable, positioning him in the ways that he usually curled up in. I took him outside to the couch where I could lay down with him, stroking his fur as he breathed shallowly, looking tired and desperate.

He pissed on me twice. I don't even think it was a conscious act; I think that he was just so numb that it was a slow leak, draining the urine out as it came. I didn't care. I stroked him, singing and talking to him in a low voice, reminding him of the good times, and telling him it was okay to let go.

His breath grew so shallow that I couldn't even feel it; I had to watch for the faint pulse of his lungs, twitching underneath his coat. Occasionally, his mouth dripping saliva, he'd rear up in a strength to try and fight some air into his lungs with a hissing noise that seemed as loud as waves crashing on an ocean shore - and then, depleted, he'd lay back down again.

He wasn't blinking anymore, and I realized then that Scrappy was completely blind.

I held and crooned him for three hours, telling him that goddammit, I was going to be there until the end. My heart ached for the little guy. He was fighting such a good fight, and for nothing, and every time he spasmed or pushed away, trying to get himself into a more comfortable pose, I held my breath. Was this it? Was it over?

As it turns out, no. Just like the two times before, Scrappy fought his way back to a semblance of health. By three in the morning, he could stumble about, his left side mostly numb and dragging; by three-thirty, he was walking with a limp but still gamely running amuck.

By three-forty-five in the morning, exhausted, I went back to check in on him; he was curled up in the shirt I had taken off, wreathed in warmth and - I think - my comfortable, familiar odor.

Okay, God, I said. I get it. I don't want him to die like that. I had seen Scrappy struggling so hard for life, and knew that his natural death would take agonizing hours; it was better to just get it done quickly, rather than watch him fight.

I woke up the next morning, tired beyond bones, and Scrappy was still sleeping. The appointment was at 11:15, so I showered, got everything ready, then let him out for one last romp. He wandered about the house, a little loose on one side; he bumped into walls with audible thumps because he couldn't see or smell them anymore, and I realized how constricted his life was. Everything he knew came to him from the tips of his whiskers, a fan of sensation that was only an inch wide. Still, he wandered eagerly, sniffing everywhere.

Eventually, when he mouthed a piece of rice from the kitchen floor, I realized it was because he was hungry - starving, even. I had made sure to remove his food dish the night before; I needed Scrappy to stay still for the injection, and the only way I could guarantee his compliance was ensuring he was ravenous for Linatone. I steered him back and cuddled him, but he didn't understand; he kept shuffling back to my feet, as if to say, Don't you see? I'm hungry.

I did. I cried.

Eventually, the time came and I put him in the box and drove; unusually compliant, he simply huddled down in the T-shirt - the same shirt - and didn't move for the half-hour drive. I took Scrappy out at the check-in desk and a woman next to me said happily, "Is that a ferret? I've never seen one before!" I didn't really respond, too concerned with stroking and petting Scrappy - who, in typical style, wanted to see the world, and struggled to get free. I told the aide that I was there for the euthanasia, and the woman's face fell. "Well, is he sick? I guess. I guess you do what you have to do...."

I held him close, wanting absolution... But there was none. Scrappy didn't understand. He just wanted down, just wanted to crawl around and see what was going on. He was better today. I couldn't tell him, and despite my best urges, I cuddled him. He didn't want cuddles. He didn't know that in ten minutes, there wouldn't be any more cuddles.

The aides and the vet ignored my pain, which I guess is the only thing they could do; to try to comfort me would only have made it worse. It was a clinical thing, and mercifully they didn't try to counsel me and ask whether I was sure.

I simply asked that they didn't stab him in the heart. No, they told me, it was an abdominal shot - a little pinch, but it's over in seconds. And ferrets have next to no sensation in their stomachs.

"He's the best ferret in the world!" I wailed, choking on the words, and they said yes, and beckoned me into the room. This is sodium pentathol, they said, showing me the needle. It will take less than a minute. It's a controlled overdose. They brought me in a blanket for Scrappy, but I declined; I had the Linatone, and I was going to use it.

I wanted it to be more tender, but I had to fight Scrappy the whole way. Not a full-out war, but he wanted to explore, to get down; he didn't fight with everything he had, but merely as if I was the usual annoyance to be dealt with, and he knew that I'd eventually give in.

Finally, I put Scrappy in position - holding, him, belly-up - and gave him the Linatone. You could see his entire body tremble as he leapt for the food. Linatone! Linatone! Lin-

It was that quick.

He never noticed the needle, and four licks into the Linatone, he got an "oh" look on his face, then fell limp in my arms. It was as quick and painless a death as you could hope for; I don't think he even knew what happened. I held him, feeling the warmth of his body as the vet and her aide stepped out. You can take as long as you need to, they said.

The entire thing took seven minutes, from start to finish.

I knew he was dead, but I held on to him as if he were my son, saddened and bawling like a baby. Scrappy, my friend of nine years, was gone. I was the only person in the world who loved him, and I was there when he died, and even though it was the right thing I can never say it was good.

They came in and gave me a form to fill out. Name of pet? It asked me. Still holding his body in my arms, I leaned over and scrawled it:

Scrappy, the best ferret in the world

You were the best, little guy. You were everything to me. And I'm sorry you had to go.

Scrappy Steinmetz
The only guy I ever loved so much
1994-2003

(Tell me I'm full of it)