Frank's gone

I woke up this morning and stumbled out of bed into the hall. Frank was there on the rug, caught mid-pose as he was scrunching around on his back. A common enough sight, although he usually isn't awake in the mornings. I paused and gently stroked his tummy with my foot. He didn't move. My heart falling to the floor ahead of me, I crouched down to feel of him with my hands. His luscious soft fur was cool to the touch. I placed a hand under him to pick him up, and rigor mortis kept him stiff in his frozen position. That's when I knew. The very first ferret I ever decided to give a home, had died in the night.

I have no idea what killed him. He was healthy and perfect right up to the end. He kept his beautiful coat, he kept his peak weight, he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed every time I held him until this last time.

He died as he lived: vibrant and happy. I guess I take some degree of comfort in that, but is it enough when I didn't get to say good-bye? I feel so awful even though I know there's no better way that he could have gone. My heart is breaking yet again.