The little girl lay in a crumpled heap, her face pressed into the tile floor, weakened by sorrow. She cried in long sobs. Her father was shaken by the depth of her anguish—he had doubted that a three-year-old heart could break so loudly. Maybe she was as much crying at the appearance of her parents' own tears and reddened eyes, as at the lifeless body of an animal she knew only as "Stevie". Her parents named him Stephen—a reference to the New Testament saint. It was a strange name for a ferret, but seemed at the time to complement the name of the older one, Micah; fury companions named for ancient characters from a distant land. Her father asked himself again, what does the Almighty feel for animals? Why do we share the world with them? Why is the short time shared with a small animal so painful to conclude? The little girl knew nothing of these questions. She was facing a more raw lesson. The girl had begun to learn about life and death, about joy and pain. Her sobs would echo through the years as she faced losses more significant and more lasting than the burial of a small, seven-year-old ferret. But in her young life the hurt was fresh and real, something briefly incapacitating and cruel. In spite of the happy memories that overlapped the best years of their lives, her parents were reviewing the same lesson. Her father seemed to hear the echoes of a little boy far away, weeping for a small furry animal that lay still and cold in the dark...
On the occasion of the death of Steve the ferret
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