Why me? ... but then, why not me?

Sunday 13trh June 2004.

Yesterday was Leah's wedding day. But I'm not going to talk about that
now, maybe later.

I'm afraid, when my life turns to shit it really does turn with a
vengeance. I'm absolutely in bits. Marty's still asleep after a very
late night. I'm dreading him waking up.

Little Bear died this morning.

The day before yesterday I noticed that he was constipated. He was
going to his corner and trying to do his business. A little while
later, he didn't bother going to his tray and halted what he was doing
every few minutes to strain with no effect. He was eating, drinking,
playing, as daft as ever and seemed perfectly fit and healthy apart
from an inability to go to the toilet.

It was eight o clock at night, the butchers were all closed, so I sent
Marty down to the co-op to get some liver. If ever a polecat is bunged
up, a good dose of liver normally goes through them and sorts out
anything that sticks. They both tucked into it and were running round
like a pair of masked robbers high on phet. He showed no signs of
distress at all apart from his not being able to go.

Yesterday morning, we had to be ready for an eleven o clock wedding. As
soon as we got up I asked Marty to check on Bear. He went to look at
him and came in saying that he was still staining but now he was crying
and had some 'poo' sticking out of his bum that wouldn't come. I didn't
even look at him at this point. I got straight on the phone to the vets
and made an appointment to take him to Ulverston immediately. I wasn't
'too' concerned. The liver should have sorted him out through the night
and because it hadn't, he needed medical attention.

Col has borrowed my carrier so all I had to take them to the vets in (I
wanted Darcy to be checked out too) was my handbag. It has two pockets
and one polecat would fit neatly into each.

It was inconvenient, I wanted to be in the bath by nine but I figured,
down there, quick injection of something and out again. I was going to
incorporate it with getting some wormer and their inoculations and kill
two birds with one stone.

As soon as I saw Bear, I knew if was very serious. He had prolapsed.
He'd strained so much that his rectum had been forced out through his
anus. Basically, his insides were now outside. It wasn't poo that Marty
had seen. I knew then that Bear as a very sick little polecat and this
was no ordinary bout of constipation. I did ninety all the way to
Ulverston.

The vet was a cow. Their primary concern is for the money. I know they
are running a business, I know they have to make a living, but surely
animal welfare should come first. She told me that her advice would be
to put Bear to sleep. Marty was hysterical. The vet said that he should
wait in the waiting room, but I explained that Bear was his pet, not
mine and that any decision made had to be his. The vet said that the
likelihood of recovery was very slim. She made me feel worse than
selfish and downright cruel for wanting to try and save his life. She
said it would be kinder to have him put to sleep. If Bear had been
having respitory problems or was in and out of consciousness, I might
have agreed with her, but he was still active and wanting to play
despite having half his insides hanging out. She told me that an
operation, and all the after care could, in theory, run up to over
eight hundred pounds. I insisted that she try. She literally told me
that it wasn't worth the effort, that Bear was 'probably' going to die
and that I'd be better taking him to another vet if I disagreed with
her diagnosis.

I asked if she was refusing to treat him and she said that she was,
'advising against it'.

I told her that I wanted him operating on immediately. She asked for a
hundred and twenty pounds and I said that I didn't have it, but I could
get it to her by Monday morning and that I'd pay a deposit (the money
we had to spend at the wedding). Marty's polecat was sitting on her
table, with his arse hanging out and she flatly refused to treat him
without full payment for the initial exploratory surgery and prolapse
repair. Two years ago, I was refused treatment for a lizard with a
popped eye because I didn't have the money for an operation there and
then in the night. Surely they must have an obligation to an animal's
well-being, but they don't. I offered to write a cheque. She refused to
accept that as payment. I told her to begin the operation and that I'd
leave my distressed son there as proof of return and get the money. She
refused and said that the operation couldn't start until I had the
money for her. I was boiling and could have hit the mercenary
bitch.

We tore back to Dalton. I had paid a hundred and forty-five quid off my
overdraft on Monday to get it down and use as money for London. Bang
went that. I was just praying that nothing had gone out of the bank to
take the credit limit below a hundred and twenty quid. It hadn't and
for once in my miserable life something went right. The vet and I
openly despised each other by this point. I had to be honest and tried
to swallow my anger and talk to her reasonably. I told her that I
didn't feel any trust in her and that my concern was that the operation
would seem like too much of an effort, that she couldn't be bothered
and that she'd euthanaise him anyway and say that he'd died under the
anaesthetic. She told me that she didn't want to operate because she
didn't feel it was in the animal's best interests. I can understand
that, but Marty and I felt that we had to try and save him. Okay, he
might go through a couple of weeks of suffering but then have a healthy
life for up to twelve years. The vet promised to do her best for him
and I had to take her at her word.

There as nothing more we could do. The last thing we felt like was
going to a wedding, by now it was almost half ten and the wedding was
due to begin at eleven. I had the quickest shower in living history and
made it bang on eleven o clock. Luckily Marty had already showered and
only needed to change. Actually, we had a very good day, marred only by
worry about Bear and the fact that Rick wasn't with us.

Half way through the meal the phone rang. We knew it was the vets
because she had promised to ring as soon as she knew anything. When the
phone rang, Marty began to cry. But it was encouraging news. Little
Bear had come through the operation, was awake, not in any pain and was
playful but sleepy. But she said that she had to tell me there was
still a very slim chance of recovery. Bear had been born with a twisted
bowel. Hence the reason he was bigger, slower and more sedate than
Darcy. The big danger was that the first time he needed to go, he'd
burst his stitches with straining and force the prolapse back out
taking us back to square one and this time with nothing left to stitch.
She said that any tear to the rectum would inevitably lead to
peritonitis. But, he'd made it through the op and she said that he
wouldn't even manage that.

I asked if we could ring throughout the day to check on his progress
and she refused. She said that it was only an emergency weekend line
and that it gets busy. She also said that they weren't manned at night.
This meant that not only was Bear without Darcy for the first time
ever, but he was going to have no human contact or anyone to help him
through the night if he deteriorated. There's was going to be nobody
there from tea-time yesterday until ten o clock today but I could ring
then.

Bear died through the night ?alone.

I know I did the wrong thing for him. It would have been kinder to let
him go yesterday, gently and quietly. But, given the same set of
circumstances, I'd do exactly the same thing again because he *might*
have made it. I feel as though I've let him down but Marty would never
have forgiven me if we didn't do everything we could to save him. If
I'd taken the vets advice and had him destroyed it would have cost
thirty eight pounds.

?120 for operation.
?50 pounds for twenty four hours hospitalisation and drugs.
?50 for x-rays.
?50 for toxicology tests

She couldn't give me a final bill but said that these are approximate
costs incurred and until she has done a full bill, she won't know the
exact final cost but it's going to be at least ?270 pounds. I dare say
there'll be an added charge for disposing of his body.

Today, I've been on the internet looking for polecat kitts. I don't
want another bloody polecat. I have to admit Bear was my favourite
because he was so loving I don't want to just replace him. But I'm
going to have to find another kitt of similar age today. Darcy is
distressed. For the first time ever, he woke me up scratching at his
hutch and crying. The hutch is under my bedroom window. He has been out
since eight o clock. No lie in for me today. He's done my head in. He's
calling for Bear all the time and has hunted the house for him. He's
driven me mental wanting attention all the time. And .. he's reverted
to biting. He hasn't bitten at all for over a week now, but the teeth
are back.

I'm so miserable about Bear. He was such a character.

15th June 2004.

You would not believe what happened yesterday. I've been accused many
times of making up my diary as I go along ? if only. I can't keep a
man, but chaos courts me with an obsession.

So, the other day, still grieving Little Bear and not wanting a
replacement, I hammered the phone ringing all manner of pet shops and
hunting people. It's still very early in the season and finding kitts
ready to go is like trying to find diamonds in a dog turd.

By this time, Darcy had been alone for over twenty four hours. He was
depressed. He had stopped playing and eating and simply stood in the
middle of the room with his head up baying for Bear or driving me nuts
for attention. A polecat or ferret that doesn't want to play is
unnatural, it's heartbreaking to see. He wanted to be picked up. When I
picked him up he struggled and wanted to be down. I had a hangover
after the wedding, bless me. It wasn't good.

By tea-time I'd just about given up when Col rang. He'd been round all
his hunting mates and found a yearling hob. I was very dubious. I
wanted a kitt to grow with Darcy not an established animal. The problem
with ferrets and polies is bad habits. It's very easy to ruin a young
polie. For instance, ours will never make decent hunters because they
are being brought up soft. The instinct will always be there but they
are going to be too well fed and pampered to have the hunger and need
to kill. This one was reputed to be a nasty bugger, but, needs
must.

I reluctantly agreed to have him brought to see how he got on with
Darcy.

What a beautiful animal he is. He's enormous (think whippet size but
without legs), big bone structure. He'll make a handsome brute when
he's been fed up a bit. He has chocolate points and a pure white
undercoat, not true Siamese but similar. He has bright, jet black eyes
and no mask if his temperament was improved he'd make a prize winning
show cat. But he's mean. His owner was badly bitten a couple of times
early on in their relationship and he's never been manned since. On the
rare occasion that he has had to be handled, he's been picked up by his
tail and dangled or goaded into boxes on the end of a broom handle.
He's arrogant and ignorant. His strike is as fast as a snake but
without the warning. When Col picked him up, he grabbed him by the tail
because he said it was the only way you could get him. I was furious
and told him that that was the last time the hob would ever be picked
up like that. "Well you get him then, if you're so clever, but you'll
need a thick pair of gloves."

I am very much against using gloves with any animal. I've tamed
hundreds of aggressive snakes, lizards, polecats, badgers and
tarantulas. I believe that animals needs to be able to smell you and
feel your skin. You have to establish trust. I let him calm for a few
minutes, hand fed him some roast beef, and was reassured when he went
for the meat in preference to fingers. I waited until he was in a god
position to go in firmly and with a fluid movement. And then I went for
it. Col was right. Before my hand had even made contact he whirled
round and had me. I objected strongly to him being picked up by the
tail but he had no such qualms about being lifted firmly attached to my
right thumb. He was delighted when the blood began to spurt and
re-enforced his hold with some vigorous head shaking and growling. Col
and Marty, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious.

The next problem was introducing him to Darcy. It's the breeding season
and a mature hob has only one thought in mind at this time of year ?
sex.

It was with some trepidation that I let Darcy into the lion's den. We
introduced them in the yard where there was a clear space for
separating if it was necessary. Col stood well back! They viewed each
other. Darcy squealed delightedly. Big fella chunttered and called to
him. It was a positive sign. They met, sniffed and the hob made a
decision to become 'daddy'. He grabbed Darcy and dragged him by the
neck, none too gently, behind the mop bucket where he stood guard over
him and spat and hissed at us. The Hob dominated and bullied Darcy,
interspersed with playing and craziness. Darcy was in love, he followed
the hob everywhere and okay, the jury is out, and against my better
judgement, the big lad is staying for now on a trial basis.

Within five minutes the change in Darcy was remarkable, the depressed
little bloke was suddenly full of fire and attitude. After a bit of
very rough, rough and tumble with the hob, he was jumping a foot in the
air, crabbing round the room full of spirit and flying at me, the dog,
Marty and anything that moved (or didn't) in delight? "um.. Bear? Bear
who?" I no longer have any plants, they've all been destroyed. Lower
ornaments have had to be removed. Darcy is livelier and seems happier
than he's ever been before.

But it wasn't long before the problems started.

Suddenly, daddy got the horn. He switches very suddenly from being
protective and loving towards Darcy to being a predatory nonce. Our
little kitt has been raped repeatedly. There is nothing loving about
polecat sex. It is a violent and aggressive bloodsport. The hob grabs
his 'victim' roughly by the neck. He bites hard until he draws blood
and the first sign that a Jill has been mated is when she wears a
necklace of scabs and sores. Darcy is not a Jill, he's an innocent baby
boy. No penetration of any kind occurs but big lad goes through the
motions and Darcy screams his head off for the duration. It's
aggressive and distressing to us when it happens, but is perfectly
natural. In the wild a male hob will 'mate' anything that will let him.
The very first sign that Darcy is affected by this and the hob is gone.
But, although he yells at the time, the second the hob lets him go,
Darcy is back for more. If things go well and we keep the hob, he's
getting booked in this week for a castration and scent gland removal.
That will ease the situation but won't stop it completely. It will be
another hundred quid to say goodbye to, and then a further hundred when
Darcy is old enough to be done.

I was talking to Darcy on Sunday and commenting that he has his adult
smell now. You forget when you haven't had one for awhile just how bad
their musking is. I was wrong. Darcy is nowhere near full niff yet. The
new hob hums to high hell and I can't wait to have him
de-scented.

Which brings us to the high drama and excitement of yesterday, hot on
the heels of what we've just been through with Bear re vets and such
like? The polies were playing happily in the house. The hob, who still
remains nameless, disappeared under the kitchen base unit. They live to
explore and no nook or cranny goes unexcavated. By four o clock he'd
been under there for about three hours. I wasn't unduly worried,
working on the assumption that what he can get into, he can get out of.
Marty came home and started fretting. I told him not to panic and that
he'd come out in his own good time. He wasn't crying or scratching so I
assumed that he'd holed up and gone to sleep under there. I was glad of
the quiet. Marty, God bless him, wouldn't settle and eventually I told
him to entice him out with a piece of cooked meat. That did no good.
"What else will smell good and bring him out?" he asked, by this time
he was quite concerned. I held up Darcy and told him to chuck him in to
bring the hob out. Darcy went in and began to wail. That rang the alarm
bells. Armed with a claw hammer we prised off all the skirting boards
and found a very shocked and distressed polecat firmly wedged in the
unit.

Right at the back of the cupboard, by the wall, is a two inch gap where
the upright support doesn't quite meet the brick. His body was limp and
hanging in one cupboard. His head, with protruding tongue was sticking
out of the other cupboard, underneath the base board, in the floor
space of the skirting. His gums were white, his eyes glazed, his neck
horribly swollen and he was clinically shocked and very close to death.
I couldn't believe that it looked as though we'd have successfully
killed off two polecats in two days. Marty was hysterical, I told him
not to panic, but it didn't look good for the big fella. I could only
just reach him. I tried for a few minutes to release him, but he was
very firmly wedged and his neck was so swollen that there was no way it
was ever going to come out of the little gap. He made no attempt at all
to bite which was the most worrying thing of all, he just lay limply. I
couldn't see what I was doing, could only reach him with my fingertips
and was working completely blind. I covered him all over in a full
bottle of cooking oil, working it into his neck in an attempt to ooze
him out. The kitchen was flooded in oil and became a skating rink. I
was slithering on the floor on my belly in my best shirt amongst dust
bunnies and whatever dust lurks under skirting boards. The hob lost
consciousness and only his rapid heartbeat showed that he was still
alive.

I rang everyone I could think of to ring to come out and help me. It
seemed that the whole world had gone out. In desperation I rang the
RSPCA. After ten minutes of pressing 1 for a human being and getting
nowhere, I was finally put in a queue, I waited a further five minutes
before giving up in frustration. I tried ringing the police. Dalton is
unmanned, it took ages to get the number and be put through to Barrow.
The Hob was dying and I was bogged down in red tape. The desk officer
said that she didn't know what she could do to help. I only had one
option left open to me. I rang nine, nine, nine for the fire brigade. I
thought I was going to get a real bolloking for wasting their time, but
the lady was fantastic.

Literally thirty seconds later we heard the sirens, they were coming
fast. All the time I was conscious that children could be dying in a
fire while they were sending vital resources out to our polecat. The
enormous fie engine couldn't get up our narrow street so blocked off,
not only our street but the main road as well. A call went out to Bay
radio to warn motorists that Dalton main street was closed to traffic.
No less than six big burly firemen trooped into my house while a crowd
of half the neighbourhood gathered outside. I was mortified. I was
filthy, covered from head to toe in cooking oil and looking like a
swollen exotic wrestler. Talk about pomp and ceremony. I was sooooo
embarrassed and felt very guilty. Now, I love animals, but a fire
engine and six blokes, for one stuck polecat, did seem a bit
overkill.

These men were in full uniform right down to helmets and fireproof mesh
gantlets and yet not one of them was brave enough to handle an
aggressive polecat. They go into burning buildings, rescue dying people
and yet every one of them said, "Ahm not touching it," and held back.
He had regained consciousness by this time, but I warned them that when
he got loose he was going to be in a bugger of a bad mood. Martha said
we should name him, 'Amnot,' as in, "Ahm not touching it." They were
brilliant. The problem was getting him free without breaking his neck.
It was a tricky operation that resulted in the back of my kitchen
units, one double and a single, being destroyed. Once they had worked
out their strategy it only took them two minutes to break the cupboard
down and then there was chaos as six men fell over themselves to run
out of the way and slam the kitchen door behind them. I hardly dare ask
if he was still alive, or what condition he was in. But, judging by the
ay they scattered I don't think I needed to. I had the book open at the
vet's number. I thought at least it would mean another trip to the
surgery. One sick polecat is unlucky, two is getting to be a bit of a
habit. I was so worried that the vet would think that the animals
aren't looked after properly.

The firemen let me into the kitchen and then gathered round the closed
door to watch the fireworks. Again, I squirmed around on the floor in
cooking oil. This isn't how I wanted to appear in front of these hunky
men. It wasn't my finest moment. I steeled myself to see the half dead
polecat writhing in agony on the floor at the back of the skirting
boards. Instead a pair of lively and curious eyes stared back at me. He
chunttered a happy 'hello' and then continued tucking into the pool of
cooking oil all around him. I put my hand in expecting teeth, but at
least if he was latched on I could pull him out attached to me easily.
He was as meek as a lamb and let me pick him out without having to
restrain him. He was talking away to me, though I have no idea what he
was saying. He hung placidly in one hand while I checked him for broken
bones with the other and he didn't try to bite me once. His eyes were
bright and his gums were pink and healthy. His neck is sore and swollen
but other than that, he is in perfect health.

These polecats, that my son assured me wouldn't cost a lot, have been
nothing but trouble and worry. They've cost me a months salary this
week already, and the week's not over yet. I'm assuming that six
firemen, an engine with sirens, helmets and gauntlets, crow bars and
sex appeal, don't come cheap. Surely the tax payer won't foot the bill
for our stuck polecat. I was so relieved and grateful to have him out
and healthy that I forgot to ask if there was to be any charge. They
didn't mention it but I'm expecting a hefty bill through the door in
the next few weeks. I'll be delighted if there's no charge but I'm
estimating in excess of another hundred quid. What the hell, it's only
money.

The hob has been a lot calmer today. He allowed me to pick him up this
morning without a fight and he's only managed to actually bite me the
once. I think he's going to tame into a good pet. He's not bothered
Darcy so much today and it looks as though he might be staying, so I
suppose he needs a name. At the moment, top of the pops is either Ming
or Fitch (the countryman's name for ferret, but he isn't a ferret so I
don't know.) If you have any suggestions Dear diary, I'd love to hear
them. Can't keep calling him, Nonce, for the rest of his life, he'll
get a reputation.

My advice to anyone thinking of keeping a polecat is ?don't.