It was all going to be so perfect. For as long as I could remember, my father had talked about moving to Montana—Big Sky Country. We’d taken many a hike amid sun-washed stretches of green grass on our visits there. It was a long way from our home in Georgia, but Dad dreamed of buying a farm in Montana and getting into the burgeoning business of raising ferrets to sell as pets. “Everyone has them out there, April,” Dad told me. “They’re small and skinny with big raccoon eyes—really frisky and playful. We’ll get a place with plenty of room for them to run around.” No, it wasn’t your standard white-picket-fence-and-a-dog American dream, but it didn’t matter. I’d always loved animals, and this sounded like it would be a real hoot.
Dad quit his job and went to Montana to look for a farm. I gave him his first ferret, which he named Jake. “The little guy’s a handful,” Dad reported on the phone. “He won’t let me get into my slippers. This morning we had a tug-of-war for ten minutes.” I laughed, wishing I were already there with him. I gave notice at the executive recruitment firm where I worked, looking forward to trading cubicles and reports for wide-open spaces and frolicking ferrets. Mom and I planned to sell our home and join Dad as soon as he found a place.
But within weeks Dad started suffering severe pain in his hips. When he went to a doctor, he was diagnosed with an advanced stage of cancer. Mom and I rushed to Montana to be with him. Three months later he was dead.
The new life we’d prepared for was over before it had even started. Jake was given away and Mom and I returned to Georgia alone. I couldn’t understand why God would choose to take my father right when he was about to live his longtime dream.
Life held no magic after Dad was gone. It was much too painful to talk about, even to God. Mom and I would eat dinner in silence, with no plans for selling our house and running a farm to discuss, no excited phone calls from Dad. I would stop by the pet store sometimes and watch the ferrets scurry around in their pens, imagining my dad wrangling over the slippers with Jake. I could see the bemused smile on his face, hear him telling “the little guy” to let go, and felt the bitter pain of what might have been.
When I went to church, I missed God’s presence too. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel that he was with me.
I couldn’t go back to my normal routine as if everything were okay. Longing to hold on to some of the thrill of anticipation I’d gotten every time I’d thought of life on a Montana farm, I looked for a job related to animals. A position opened up at a petting zoo and I grabbed the opportunity. At last I’d get the chance to be outside with animals every day the way I would have been on the farm with Dad.
The petting zoo had every kind of animal from llamas to deer to foxes. But of course I was drawn to the ferrets. There were two of them, and their antics made them popular with the kids who visited. Still, even though I loved the ferrets, the little creatures were a constant reminder of what I’d lost.
Soon a third ferret arrived. He was particularly small and sable-colored, and his name was Polo. Each time I tried to introduce Polo to the two resident ferrets, they started fighting. “I guess we’ll have to find a special place just for you,” I said to Polo as I peered into his deep black eyes. “Don’t worry, little guy, I’m going to take very good care of you.”
I put Polo in a separate pen. He was sickly, so I had to take special care to feed him right, and I spent lots of one-on-one time playing with him to keep him from getting too lonely. I felt at ease with him, despite his characteristic ferret hyperness. Taking care of Polo became my reason for getting up in the morning. One afternoon the zoo director told me she thought two ferrets were enough. “Could you find a home for Polo?” she asked. Could I!
That evening I brought Polo home and introduced him to Mom. She reluctantly agreed to let Polo join our household—if he stayed in my room.
My room became the ferret’s romping ground. He never sat still. He’d chase me around, then hide behind a piece of furniture before jumping out at me. When I finally collapsed on my bed exhausted, he’d curl up under my chin and nap with me. One morning I awoke to find him chewing on my slippers. “If only Dad could have seen you,” I said to him, remembering Dad talking about the ferret I’d given him. Again the keen pain of loss struck me. I picked up Polo. Stroking his soft fur, I felt a warmth and love that reminded me of Dad. I could almost imagine him reaching down to pet the little ferret too.
One day when I thought Polo was asleep, I opened my bedroom door. Before I knew it, a furball whizzed by my legs into the hallway. “Mom, look out!” I called. “Polo’s on the loose.” But he was chasing Mom around the living room. I started chasing Polo, and the three of us ran around the room, Mom shrieking, Polo chucking, and me laughing until we all fell on the couch.
Then Polo hunched his back, leaped into the air and scampered away. Mom giggled. “Guess he’s made himself at home,” she said.
Mom gave Polo free run of the house after that. He developed a taste for caramel corn, and many an evening he entertained us with his spontaneous games of tag and his aerial acrobatics, which we nicknamed the “weasel war dance.” I felt alert again, tuned in—waiting to see what Polo would do next.
After dinner one evening, Mom and I sat watching Polo dash around the house, scattering papers and knocking over knick-knacks. “I don’t think your father had any idea what he was getting himself into,” she said with a quiet chuckle. I laughed too. I could picture Dad methodically putting things in Polo’s wake back in place over and over.
I came home one evening to find Polo retching. Soon after that he started losing weight and got too sick even to nibble on caramel corn. I could feel every rib in his tiny body when I held him. I took him to the vet for tests. Later that day the vet called back and told me Polo had a tumor. They could remove it, but the operation would cost more than I could possibly pay.
“I can’t afford it. I’m sorry. I guess you’ll have to put him to sleep,” I said, unable to hold back my tears until I hung up.
I didn’t go to say good-bye to Polo because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Instead, I went into my room, where I threw myself onto the bed.
When Mom came home and I told her the news, we hugged each other for a long time. It almost felt like I was losing Dad all over again.
I finally managed to get to sleep and was still in bed the next day when the phone rang. It was the vet. He said, “Good afternoon, Miss Miller. Polo made it through the surgery with flying colors.”
“What?” I said. “But I thought he was gone.”
“One of my technicians fell in love with Polo and wanted to keep him, so she covered the cost of the operation. She says you can visit him anytime.”
“Polo’s alive,” I said quietly. But, I thought, he’s not mine. “Thank you, doctor, and thank your technician too.”
I knew I couldn’t visit Polo, only to have to go through the heartbreak of leaving him behind. Whether dead or alive, he was still lost to me.
For days I ate little, slept a lot and didn’t answer phone calls. One night while lying awake, I could take no more. God, I miss my father, I prayed. I miss Polo. And I miss you.
I went to church more, desperately seeking comfort. I started, little by little, to talk to others about my father and Polo, to let them pray for me. And I found myself mentioning Dad more in conversations with Mom.
One morning I decided to tidy up the post-Polo household. Everywhere there were reminders of the lively little creature. Ferret fur all over the sofa cushions, caramel corn stuck in the carpet and his favorite hiding places.
Other memories came back, like Dad saying, “We’ll need a big place where they have plenty of room to run around. Just us, the ferrets, and the big Montana sky.” I could still see the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. It wasn’t so much the idea as it was his enthusiasm for it that made it special. That, and how much I loved him.
All at once I was overwhelmed with gratefulness to God, not only for the love he had put in my heart for my father, but gratefulness for Polo, who had given me hope that there could be joy in life even after the worst thing in the world had happened.
That afternoon I got a telephone call. It was the vet’s assistant who had stepped in to saved Polo’s life. “I’ve gotten a couple of other ferrets now, so if you’d like, you can have Polo,” she said. “He’s in great shape.”
I was on my way to her house in a heartbeat. I picked up Polo and brought him back home. “Now you be careful,” I said. “I just cleaned this place up.”
With that, Polo scampered across the floor, launched into his weasel war dance and headed for the caramel corn.
