A few years back, our family ferret—Mr. Beasley—died. He was my daughter’s best friend. He was a pain sometimes—stinky, messy—but he was also playful and loyal. He loved us, and we loved him.
When he passed, my daughter and I buried him in the backyard. It was sad. A quiet moment we shared—separately, but together. That moment stuck with me. It became the seed for the story burying mr. beasley, which appears in DEVOTION.
The story, though, is very different from reality. In it, a father and daughter bury a ferret too. But for them, it’s not just about the pet. It’s about the wife and mother who’s recently died. The burial is a way to grieve, to remember, to stay tethered. The daughter speaks about earthworms and survival. The father tries to keep it together. Both of them doing what they can to keep going. To be okay.
It’s a story about loss, yes. But also love. And hope. About being devoted—moving forward, even when it hurts.
Here’s the story in its earliest form—a poem:
Burying the Ferret
Magic
in tulips and top soil
and earthworms
split into halves
by the shovel
as I dig a hole
next to the flower garden
for the Saucony shoebox
my five-year-old daughter
has put him in.
She closes her eyes
and kneels
and we pray silently,
just as we’ve done
for Bucky the goldfish,
Teddy the cat,
Bobsled the parakeet,
and Jawbreaker the gerbil.
Only this time
it’s for Mr. Beasely,
the ferret I did not want
because of the stink and poop and pee,
but that I knew was perfect
for our misfit family
the moment he climbed
into the pocket
of my Central Michigan University sweatshirt
at the pet store.
Just two bodies
alone together
on a big ball of dirt
zipping through space
and time,
trying not to be alone,
far, far away
from everything we’ve come to know
but closer than ever
to where we began—
what made us.
I shovel dirt onto our friend.
My little girl buries her head
into my thigh
and cries
and the lump rises
and grows hard
in my throat
and no matter how hard I fight it
a tear comes.
~ KJ
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