Friends… we lost Sharpie. It’s been emotionally heavy over here. We all knew from the beginning that this outcome was still a strong possibility, even with all the work I’m doing to try and avoid it, but this news still feels devastating to have to share. Even though intakes like Sharpie are wild animals who are only with me for a few short weeks, the loss of these hydro babies always breaks my heart. I think part of what makes these losses so difficult emotionally is that these babies are often some of the sweetest patients. You wouldn’t normally want to encourage a rehab patient to bond to you, however, these babies don’t process the world quite the same way as a typical fox kit. Their lack of normal fear - which is always part of how a human was able to get their hands on them in the first place - and their inability to really distinguish friend versus foe means they seek out comfort and affection and express excitement in a way that makes it almost impossible not to become attached. Sharpie was arguably our hardest hydro baby loss yet, because he was SO “good”. He was so much more like a “typical” kit than most cases. I really thought he might “be the first one” because of his encouraging mentation and ability to function. His sudden decline was a blow to the chest, to say the least. Some of you may remember the hydrocephalic baby we named Coconut from a few years ago; he wasn’t with us long, as usual, but that loss really stung for my daughter, Ella. I still remember coming home from the vet without him in the carrier and watching her young, knowing eyes instantly fill with tears. Well, Ella has been more involved than ever assisting where she safely can with my wildlife rehab work this year, prompted both by her maturing and showing genuine, personal interest in my work, and also by my fractured foot forcing me to heavily rely on loved ones for help. Her true involvement this year led to Ella really viewing Sharpie as “her intake” in a way. Even though she understood from the beginning that this outcome was still likely - because we haven’t quite “figured it out” yet, & because I’m VERY transparent with my children about the realities of this line of work - it still shattered her heart. So, grieving Sharpie’s loss while simultaneously empathizing with my own blood and mini-me as she experienced her first truly excruciating rehab heartbreak, seeing silent tears fog her glasses when I acknowledged that it was time… that was a very unique kind of pain. Sharpie was playful, curious, and full of personality. He happily ran around carrying toys in his mouth, activated his little “Porsha ears” every time he heard someone approaching, loved cuddling with Apple, and genuinely just seemed happy to exist. He was also able to stay with us a couple weeks longer than most (and again, he was not just “alive” - he appeared comfortable and maintained the ability to perform most normal functions), which was very encouraging. And that’s exactly why I will continue pushing back against the idea that every one of these babies should automatically be euthanized upon intake. Because Sharpie’s life mattered, and I have absolutely no doubt that he ENJOYED life right up until his sudden turn for the worse - which, unfortunately, is a spontaneous reality that can occur with the delicate brains of these babies, especially in these early stages while we’re still fine-tuning medical management and seeing if they may someday become appropriate candidates for surgery. But because of all of you, his story became bigger than just another loss. We were able to officially confirm severe obstructive hydrocephalus via MRI. We gathered advanced imaging while he was still with us, more data, & more firsthand experience managing this condition than we’ve ever had before. We learned from him, documented it all, and even though his loss feels like a smash to the heart, his life ultimately moved this mission another step forward. CAPTION CONTINUED…