Indomitable Huckleberry
Wayne Deeker
"Don't do it. I'll shoot."
He gazed at me defiantly.
"I mean it." I menaced him with the weapon.
He unblinkingly held my gaze through the cactus branches, his normal frenetic motion deadly still. Even his gurgling breathing slowed eerily.
His red eyes narrowed as he made the decision.
He sprang with inhuman reflexes. I put three between his eyes, only enraging him. He lunged faster and faster, gaping fangs snapping. I switched to a double-handed grip and kept pulling the trigger.
He chomped another mouthful of the favourite zygo-cactus flowers, breaking branches and chewing through the leaves.
"Stupid ferret!" With an expression of disgust Huckleberry shook off his creamy white fur as would a dog, glaring at me. He considered the nearly-empty squirt gun, slowly munched another few flowers without taking his eyes off me, then walked off. Ferrets never walk, only run.
Later I found him in the three-inch space under the aquarium stand. Now dry, I patted him on my shoulder. I inhaled the musky smell. At six months old, he was shorter than and lacking the back-hump of the older ferret, Dooker, like a chubby rat. "Truce?" I asked. He gurgled happily, yawned and climbed higher up my shoulder. "Dook, dook, dook!" He wriggled and nuzzled me affectionately. I held him out in front of me, tentatively playing noseys with him as I do with the cats. Still smiling, he chomped my nose, sinking his fangs all the way in. He half-fell and I half threw him to the floor. He ran off, uninjured, while I dealt with the blood.
I let him run around, skipping my usual checks. Preparing for bed about 11 pm, I realised that for some hours I hadn't heard his usual snurffling, running and banging through the small spaces in the house. The space between the back of the dishwasher and the wall was one of his favourite curl spots. I'd seen him there hours ago and found him there.
About two inches above the floor Huckleberry's back end protruded from a hole in the free-standing dishwasher's back panel. "Come on, time for bed." For once he didn't come running, twitching weakly only when I touched his feet.
I pulled the dishwasher from the wall, but only a few inches because of the rubber pipes inside the cupboard. I disconnected those and pulled the dishwasher right out, turning the back around.
I tried to pull Huckleberry out gently but he was completely jammed. I could have stretched him in half. He'd been stuck for hours with his head deep inside the hole, back legs not touching the floor, weight entirely supported across his tummy on the thin steel panel.
The steel plate was bonded directly with the machine's frame. Even if I'd had the tools to remove the panels, the hole was in the strongest part of the frame and couldn't be taken apart.
I looked for the fire station's number in the phone book. Though listed, no-one answered. I called 000.
"Emergency. What service?"
"It's not an emergency, but I need a pet-rescue squad."
"Sir, what emergency service do you need?"
"Okay, fire."
"Fire brigade."
"Um, does the fire brigade have a pet-rescue squad?"
The male voice remained steady and reassuring. "Yes, we do. It's at Belconnen station. What's the problem?"
"I know it sounds stupid, but my ferret is stuck in the dishwasher. In the back. I can't get him out, and it will need cutting equipment. I don't have any tools and even if I did I'd be afraid of cutting him in half. I need some help from people who know what they're doing."
"Okay sir, we'll send the squad. What's the address?"
My back door and gate are just metres from the main strip through centre of the townhouse complex. My gate is also one of the closest to the main road and visible from it. Within one minute of me going outside to wait, the fire truck pulled up: lights flashing but no siren. I waved it down and it parked on the main strip. It's difficult to conceal a fluoro yellow-lime fire truck nearly blocking the access road to the entire complex.
Five burly firemen clomped into the dining room. I explained the problem: "See those little legs sticking out of that hole? My ferret's stuck and you have to cut him out. You can't get your hand in anywhere to push from the other side." They smirked momentarily but caught themselves.
The supervisor sent two guys to the truck. They returned carrying a hydraulic cutting tool. Another two guys knelt down and fitted the blades to the dishwasher frame while the other three stood watching. The knee-high machine made a loud CHOONK sound and cut through the metal like tissue paper. Several more times they cut around Huckleberry. Again he struggled weakly and I patted his back. The firemen had cut a V-shape out of the frame above the hole, at last gently lifting him out. Huckleberry kicked and struggled a little as they handed him to me.
"Mate, we have to tell ya. He still might not make it. He's been lying across the bottom edge of the hole for hours and it might have cut off the circulation. He might have organ damage."
I held Huckleberry, stroking his back, then put him on the floor. He lay on his side, breathing laboured, feet twitching, unable to stand.
"You're still gonna need a vet," said the supervisor.
I held Huckleberry in my hands, so terribly and uncharacteristically still. "I think so. But I still really appreciate you rescuing him." The firemen collected their equipment, handing me the biggest piece of the dishwasher panel. Five firemen clomped off in single file, each giving a final subdued look at a man by the back sliding glass door worriedly holding a tiny ferret.
I readied the cat travel-box, filled the drinking tube and attached it, then put Huckleberry and a few blankets inside. Outside it was below freezing. I drove to the nearest 24 hour vet hospital: closed, and so was the next. I never knew you had to call first. I drove a long way to a third one, the biggest in town, then realised that if that one wasn't open none would be.
I kept talking to and checking on Huckleberry. "You're gonna be okay, just hold on."
I stopped at a service station, explained the situation, and asked to borrow their phone and phone book. They didn't charge me. Now one am, I woke an emergency vet and he agreed to meet me at the surgery about fifteen minutes away. When I arrived I realised the pet drink-bottle with a little ballbearing in the nozzle had been leaking. In the freezing night air, Huckleberry had been lying in a puddle.
The vet, tired but long-accustomed to interrupted sleep, examined Huckleberry while encouraging him to walk across the examination table. Huckleberry lay there almost inertly, his breathing shallow. "He's gone into shock," said the vet. "I've given him an injection for that, but it really depends on whether there's been any organ damage. I'd say his chances are about fifty percent," but the concerned expression under his short grey hair said that was an exaggeration. "All you can do is take him home and keep him warm, and he might make it."
At home I wrapped Huckleberry in blankets with his head sticking out, and a bowl of water within easy reach. I checked Huckleberry's breathing. Now 4.30 am, I had a troubled sleep on the couch.
I woke at seven am. Huckleberry had stopped breathing and was cold. Later I slept again, then called my mother to ask whether I could bury Hucklebery in their backyard.
At 11 am when I put Huckleberry in the travel box for the short trip to my parents' place, he was already stiff. I held him up to my nose one last time, smelled his musky scent, patted his fur.
The smell was too much. That was the only thing unchanged. I cried a little for the accident-prone ferret I didn't want in the first place, now stilll for the first and final time. I remembered the day K and I bought him from the breeder as company for the older ferret, Dooker. He was so tiny, but he still fought with Ozziecat, the toughest and biggest cat I and everyone I know have ever seen. Ozzie tolerated him, soon even accepting him as family, and often cuddled with him. Smells recall a million memories, even if only six months worth. "You dumb ferret. Why'd you have to get stuck like that?" I patted his back again. "I miss you."
I let the cats and Dooker see Huckleberry and say goodbye. I gathered some of Huckleberry's toys, pingpong balls and other plastic objects he loved to fetch, and a bucketful of the disputed flowers.
I dug a deep hole between the rose bushes, held him again, and cried one final time. I prepared a bed of flowers at the base of the hole; deliberately silent, I lowered him onto the flowers, then his toys, then another layer of flowers. I shovelled in the soil, then made a ring of zygo flowers around the grave.
The following day I collected the photographs I'd taken a few days before.
Postscript:
K called from Hawaii to say that Huckleberry visited her as a green light hanging over the bed. She didn't know at that point that he'd died. She says he's with her now.