Ferreting for the Truth about Euthanasia

by Alicia Mae Young ‘06

I never thought I’d have to put an animal to sleep.  I love animals; I like them more than I like most people, to tell you the truth.  If researchers ever concluded that vegetarianism was downright hazardous and would kill you by the age of twenty-five, I probably would not be around for much longer.

I’ll always remember my twelfth birthday, when I first saw my ferret, Milky, and fell in love.  He was a mere seven weeks old, no longer than the palm of my hand, and he could not even chew solid food on his own.  As a result of his being taken from his mother so early, the little guy grew up with me as “mom.”  We were best buddies; he stayed in my room and had me wrapped around his little paw within a week.

Ferrets are two-pound bundles of ceaseless, endearing energy.  The ball of fur would cavort around my room perfecting his frolic on hapless stray socks and stealing my keys if I was foolish enough to leave them lying about.  He’d burrow beneath my carpet making his chuckle of a "ferret noise," wearing me out more quickly than he would himself.  During the winter he would curl up on my feet and warm us both when I’d nap in the afternoon, then rouse me by nipping my ankles when he was ready to play again.

When I left for college, I would never have guessed that it’d be the last time I’d see Milky.  Periodically my mom would call and keep me updated on how the little Milkman was faring.  She said that Milky had slowed down as of late; but ferrets usually live only five to eight years—he was already six and a half when I left.  I chalked up his lassitude to old age.

"The vet says he’ll probably live for a few more months, but it will be painful.  The vet suggested—and it’s your decision—but… do you want to put him down?"

Then one day, about a month into the semester, my mom told me that Milky wouldn’t get up when she went to feed him.  She said he just lay there, his little feet twitching as he made a wheezing noise in the back of his throat.  His eyes, usually bright, had taken on an apathetic glaze.  That did not sound good.  I wanted to go home and see if he was alright, but my mom wouldn’t hear of it.  She said I needed to be at school and that she would take Milky to the vet the next day and call me as soon as she knew what was going on.  I was sad, but I kept my fingers crossed and prayed that it was something curable.

The next afternoon my mom called me and I asked immediately, “So what’s the prognosis?”  My mom hesitated for a moment; then the tone of her voice made my blood turn to ice.

“Well, Milky, he’s… he’s not well.”

“What’s the matter?”  I started to panic.

“Sweetie, I hate to be the one to tell you, but… Milky has abdominal cancer.  He’s bleeding internally.”  My heart dropped into my shoes.

“Honey, I’m so sorry… the vet says he’ll probably live for a few more months, but it will be painful.  The vet suggested—and it’s your decision—but… do you want to put him down?”

“What kind of monster do you think I am?! I’m not murdering my own pet!”  And I slammed the receiver down, collapsing onto my bed. 

How could I do that to an animal—Milky, no less?  He was like a member of my family.  Having the vet administer euthanasia was no different than the death penalty, at least not to me.  Tears flooded my eyes as I had awful visions of my ferret stretched out on the vet’s table, squealing and twitching as they injected the fatal shot.  I felt sick.  I could not do that to him.

The next day my mom called me again and told me that I had to make a decision.  I told her that there was no way I was going to put Milky through the torture of being put to sleep.

“Torture?”  She sounded surprised.  “Euthanasia is practically painless—the word itself means ‘easy and painless death’.”  I was confused.

“You mean it’s not all drawn out, like a lethal injection?”

“Goodness, no—hold on a minute; I’m going to send you something.”  I waited for a minute while my mom put down the receiver, then she came back and said, “Check your e-mail.”

There’d be no drawn-out pain or gory convulsions; his blood pressure would decrease and he’d simply fall asleep, quickly and peacefully.

I hung up the phone and opened my mailbox.  I found an e-mail from her with an article on euthanasia.  I didn’t want to read it, but she’d attached a note that said, “I think this will help you with your decision. Love, Mom.”  I took a deep breath and began to read.

My face was awash with tears—both of relief and sadness—by the time I finished the article.  It turned out that euthanasia wasn’t the torment I had imagined.  All that would happen was that the vet would give Milky a shot (an overdose of a barbiturate anesthetic), and within seconds of starting the injection his heart would stop.  There’d be no drawn-out pain or gory convulsions; his blood pressure would decrease and he’d simply fall asleep, quickly and peacefully.

This definitely sounded like an easier way to go than suffering with cancer for months.  I managed to find my voice long enough to call my mother back and tell her that I wanted her to go ahead with putting Milky down.  She asked if I wanted to come home and see him one last time, but strangely enough I found myself saying no.  Seeing him might make me change my mind, and I did not want to make him live in pain for any longer—it would be easier for everyone this way.

Losing a pet is never easy, whether it be to euthanasia, trauma, or just natural causes.  Since Milky died I have gotten a new ferret who I love dearly, though I know that someday I’ll have to say goodbye to him as well.  I suppose that having pets involves a degree of self-chosen pain, but I also believe that the old adage is true: “’Tis better to have ferreted and lost than never to have ferreted at all.”  

For more information about euthanasia, search for “euthanasia” at www.petplace.com