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Rescue of a Weasel
 by Diane C. Nicholson
 

 My son, Jordie, was breathless on the other end of the phone.  “Mom, there is a ground squirrel here that’s been hit by a car.  It’s alive, but pretty badly injured!”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m phoning from the corner store.  It’s up the road from here a bit.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”  I hung up the phone, found a small animal crate, and some heavy gloves.  I sighed, “Here we go again...”

Jordie had encountered the animal while riding his bike to a friend’s house, so the drive was short.  He hailed me, and pointed towards a small brown creature writhing on the ground.  It flopped over and over, like a worm that had been cut in half.

“That’s not a ground squirrel, Jord.  That’s a weasel.”  I thought back to my days working at the Vancouver Children’s Zoo, and to how no one ever wanted to have to clean the weasel cage.  Intelligent, but not taking kindly to the humans who held them in captivity, the weasels would have to be tricked into a holding cage so that the cleaning could be done in safety.

“I don’t think I can help him.  He looks like his brain has been injured, and he is in one constant convulsion.  Probably the best thing would be to put him out of his misery,” I said, but as soon as I did, I wondered if maybe there was a chance.  I had been socialized to believe that dying was painful, and that humankind had a responsibility to not let animals go through the process, but instead to put them out of their suffering “humanely”.  Thus dogs that were old and blind, horses that were slowing down from old age, and cats that could no longer jump onto the couch were routinely euthanized.  But I had started to wonder who was actually being helped in these situations.  I had seen animals die, and couldn’t help but wonder if the process was an important one to them.  I knew that in our small town of Westwold, in the interior of BC, weasels were not on the endangered list.  Nonetheless, I had always looked at creatures as individuals rather than as a species, and I wanted to do what I could for this little one.

I put on the gloves and, mindful of the power of a weasel, gently scooped him into the crate.  The seizures continued.

When we returned home I placed the weasel into a cool area of the shop.  I turned off the lights and left him for an hour.  When I went back, he was quiet.  But the instant that the lights were turned on, the seizures started.  So I left him again.

Several hours later I checked on the little creature.  He was lying quietly on his side.  It had been a very hot day, and I wasn’t certain how long he had been in the sun, so I knew it was essential to get water into him.  Still very aware of a weasel’s temperament, and also cognizant of the possibility of rabies, I dripped some water into his mouth with a spoon, and stroked his throat with a stick.  He swallowed.  Suddenly the depressing prognosis had brightened.

 By the next morning the weasel was alert and sitting up on his front paws.  He started to lick canned cat food and vitamins from a spoon, and his appetite seemed good.  He would still seizure from time to time, but they were becoming farther apart.

 It looked like he might be around for a bit, so he needed a name.  Only one came to mind—we would call him Popgoes.  Popgoes, the Weasel...

 Over the next week Popgoes became brighter, ate more, and was able to drag himself to the side of the crate for water.  We still fed him by spoon, and my husband, Harry had developed a relationship with the little guy so that he had no fear of feeding him by hand.  Popgoes seemed to enjoy our company, and it became obvious that he appreciated our help.

However, his backend was paralyzed.  He could move his front around with no problem, but his hind legs dragged uselessly.  “Now what...” I thought.  “ What do I do with a crippled, brain damaged weasel?”

We decided to give him time, and see what Nature had in store.

Slowly over the next weeks, Popgoes’ back legs started to twitch, to move, and then to hold his weight.  He hopped with them together for the first while, but soon was able to move them separately.  It was a wonderful sight!

Winter was coming and we wanted him to find his way before the air turned frigid.   We also needed to ensure that he wasn’t let loose near a chicken farm where he might get shot.  So Harry and I, along with our two sons, took our truck up the hill of Crown land behind our place, found a good area, and poured a mound of cat food to help him get started.

Popgoes ran back and forth in his crate, becoming more and more excited.

It was time.  We opened the crate and with a mighty bound, the little weasel showed no hint of a limp as he ran to a stump.  He stopped, turned to us, and if a weasel has such muscles in his face, smiled and ran off.

We grinned at each other, gathered up the cage and put it and ourselves in the truck.  Popgoes was off to take his chances in an area where they were good.  And we enjoyed the exhilaration that accompanies a successful rescue.