No one was quite sure how old Sim was now. The kids had been around 12 when the ferret came into the house as a birthday present, and now they were way past college, trying to dig back to memories, knowing now that they were indeed the high point of exis tence. As long as Sim could stay alive, the dreams and connection to youth could still thrive.
Dr. Mark was good enough - meaning he was cheap enough. He wasn't going to lie to the family that brought the house pet in.
"Ferret's just old, that's all. Just some rest, and don't expect to run around with him like you used to, not that I imagine it's been a while..."
"Yeah," father agreed.
"Just curious. Ever... let him out in the back yard, ever come back?"
"Every time."
The doctor made an unbelieving frown.
"No, like... pep pills or whatever's the animal equivalent..?"
The vet shook his head. "I don't believe the bottle even for us is the answer there. Too many Real ailments to have to worry about age. Happens to all, every one. See these hands?" He shook them for the family of four, and father smiled for a moment unti l he realized the good doctor wasn't funning him. They never took Sim back there.
No reason to. Now they knew. Just waiting on death; like everyone else. But the grown-up kids still living at home were gentler with Sim, who just laid there, and let his breathing regulate. Let the world and the food come to him. Soon the water dish was moved daily, just to wherever Sim happened to be.
Mother thought it was funny the way love changes between pet and family or captor and regulator or giver and taker, it was like love was a fad on one side, common on the other. Sim would never run away - he needed them; until he really didn't need them a nymore. But then father and mother couldn't agree at all on which side was which.
A few weeks later Sim was in that hole, near the gas meter; under the house. There had always been a board there blocking it up, from those long years ago when a sleek black dog ran much of the back yard grass to dirt.
The man son removed the board and fought off spiders like a girl, while mother brought the plug-in flashlight out, and they all tried to peak in, because they'd heard Sim for a few days now. Always wondered where he got to, but he was never out in the ya rd; and he'd never crawled under the house before; still, they had to look.
"Sim!"
"Sim!"
"Sim!"
"Sim!"
No voice got recognition, so they tried again, and waited. Finally and faintly, the groan came out again. It was sickly, and it scared everyone. A quick discussion of what to do finally led to mother calling someone from church who did a lot of repairs. Maybe the rate would be cheap, maybe the man would know what to do.
The complete handyman's van crawled into the driveway, and the first thing Dan did was to take out a long ladder, and a humorous net fashioned onto the end of a tree-tall pole.
"What's the ladder for?" son asked.
"What I do," Dan explained, "is poke it in, using the flashlight first, make sure he's not right under that. Then I climb it like I'm going high, and that way if I see something I don't like, or have my hands full, you can pull me out by the ladder at wh atever speed I'm talking about."
"Right."
The ladder went in as indicated, the tall pole-net in hand. In the other hand was the flashlight which poked and probed the secret land beneath the house. Cans and bottles and bones and spiders and a few mice that might grow up to be rats and pieces of h oses and bricks of a couple varieties and old caps and cardboards or woods, all spread out on a vast bed of sand like a middle-class wasteland. Not to mention the foundations, the wires, the ugly fungi creeping slowly up the brick base - there was a lot t o sort through. It took around 45 minutes.
"Okay!" The subterranean voice yelled. "Slow!"
Mother and daughter had gone in to cool off. The south had a way of hitting you if you fought the sun for too long. Father pulled; son took the end.
Gradually, Dan came out of one world into a better. Clutching a little something in the hand not holding the net.
He handed the house pet to son, as he dusted himself off.
Son could see there was no more life. He looked at father who had had a feeling. They traded speeches in that look like prayers, but without the religion. Father was mostly sorry for his child; trying to think about how he'd tell the women. It would matt er. Grief was grief; you can go your whole life with having enough.
They all had a good cry, or a bad cry, and mother slipped out for a moment to give Dan a few bills and a rich thank you. He said he was sorry, and moved back to the van without a mention of God.
The burial was quick and tasteful, but no one felt sane enough to make a speech. A pet was a pet, or so they tried to imagine. The truth was, the love had died, and now was buried. The house would never know another family pet again. They were all gettin g too old for this. And feelings weren't like dried skin, were they? Could they be replaced, by something that looked, felt the same? It didn't matter. No one spoke of Sim. Only in thoughts, of private epitaphs, and in memory collections. Grouping Sim wit h pictures of the children, whenever a picture or a word sent the mind back; or a job; or a political time of life; of dates and romances and seasons and teens' years.
Mother wondered how long Sim had had to suffer beneath the house. Hoped it wasn't too long. But never said as much. Preferring to stick with pictures of the children, whenever a picture or word sent....
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Last Updated: July 10, 1996