Indeed, the opening between her eyelids widened day by day. I could see a little bit of her eye. I got the impression, sometimes, that through those tiny openings, the little one was trying to look at me.
Hedgehogs see primarily in black and white, plus a few colors. Not all of them. And, at any rate, their vision isn’t very good. But their sense of hearing and smell are very developed. Surely Ninna recognized my scent, because I always handled her without gloves. Soon she would see me. Would she think I was her mama?
Giulia answered my e-mail right away:
Hoglets open their eyes between two and three weeks of age. That means Ninna is a little older than we thought. Unfortunately, that also means she was, and is, hugely underweight! Check her teeth, because in the third week they start to poke out from the gums. And then you’ll have to start weaning. In nature, hoglets that age would follow their mother out of the nest and learn from her how to procure food by digging in the ground.
I wrote her again:
In any case, I think Ninna is doing well. She’s very lively, she’s agile, and sucks on everything she comes upon. And she makes noise: Every once in a while, she shrieks!
Another prompt reply from Giulia:
When hedgehogs “suckle,” it means they’re hungry! We need to give her more milk. And soon get started with weaning. For now, try giving Ninna her usual milk in a saucer. At this point, she can learn to eat on her own!
Greta and I put Ninna on the table. She didn’t stumble anymore. The formula and vitamins had worked miracles. We brought a spoon full of milk up to her. She dove in. Hedgehogs have very long noses, and their mouths are positioned further back. Her nose beat her mouth to it. She jumped back with a start, blowing out milk left and right. It was hilarious, but it scared me, too. “Madonnina mia, she’s going to choke! She’s choking! The milk went up her nose!” Panic. I sent a text to Giulia, who calmed me down:
Nothing to fear! Hedgehogs have a part in their nose with a membrane which closes if needed, keeping liquids from getting through.
I felt better. I examined Ninna’s little nose: a jewel. It looked like a piece of licorice. Perfect. With those tiny nostrils so clearly defined, it was as if the able hand of a master miniaturist had painted them. Only better. Nothing can top the perfection of nature.
Meanwhile, Ninna kept on snorting out drops. At the same time, with her tongue extended, she licked the milk off her nose.
She learned how to drink by herself pretty quickly. Greta and I watched her, enraptured: Ninna would drink a little, lift her head, swallow, and then go back down to take another sip. A fluid motion—harmonious, continuous.
A wave.
A dance.
At the beginning of the next week, still following Giulia’s instructions to the letter, I bought some freeze-dried meat for kittens.
I read and reread her latest e-mail:
Massimo, by now I know you well and can pre-empt you. :) When you give Ninna this new food, don’t have a heart attack!!! Let me warn you: You’ll see the hoglet start to tremble and then…it will spit up. RELAX! She might twist around and seem all contorted, but don’t freak out! It’s normal for a hedgehog to do that when it encounters a totally new flavor. It’s called self-anointing.
Self-anointing? I was amazed and curious. I supplemented the usual formula with the tip of a teaspoon’s worth of meat powder. I mixed it together and put the concoction on a plate. I placed it in front of Ninna. And the show began.
Ninna tasted it. Right away her eyes gaped open, and she produced a kaleidoscope of grimaces that wrinkled her whole muzzle. You could die laughing! She seemed on the point of saying, “What the heck is this stuff you’re making me eat now?” Then she panted a little and started mixing the food with her saliva. A little foam appeared on the sides of her mouth—thank goodness Giulia had warned me, otherwise I really would have had a coronary—and then the little thing began to contort. She bent her neck and arched her body. She thus tried to reach all along her back and spread the foam over her spines. But, clumsy like all pups, she wobbled left and right and kept tipping over, winding up on her back with her legs pedaling in the air.
Hedgehogs begin the strange practice of self-anointing when they’re babies and continue as adults. No one knows for sure the reason for this behavior. It may be to camouflage their scent. Or, since over time it produces a notable stench, maybe it’s a way of making a “do-it-yourself” repellant. Who knows.
Little by little, I began to increase the amount of meat powder and reduce the quantity of milk. Weaning would end when she was forty days old. At that point, I wouldn’t give her milk anymore, so as not to risk a dangerous intolerance. Ninna continued to grow and became, if possible, even more lovely. Whereas I—after so many sleepless nights and days spent racing between her and my job—was physically wrecked. Thinner, with dark circles under my eyes, I yearned for a whole night of uninterrupted sleep. It seemed like a mirage.
It was Friday night again. Greta came over. She hugged me and then rushed over to Ninna.
“Can I pick her up?” she asked me.
“I’d rather you didn’t. You might drop her.”
But as if I hadn’t said anything, she’d already picked her up, lifted her to her face, and nuzzled her gently against her cheek. Yes, I admit, I was a little possessive. However, I really was afraid she could fall. I plucked Ninna out of her hands and put her back in her box. I had to leave for an important appointment, but I felt uneasy. I told Greta not to pick her up again, to let her rest, and we would feed her when I got back.
I returned a little later than expected. The house was silent, as if no one were home. I quickly headed to Ninna. The box was empty. Worry came out of my pores. I ran nervously from room to room, searching for Greta. I found her in the bedroom. She was lying on the bed, two pillows under her head, the sheet up to her chin. I didn’t even say hello. Instead I jumped on her. “Where’s Ninna?” My angry voice met her serene gaze. With enigmatic flourish, putting her index finger to her lips, she whispered, “Shh!” She folded the sheet down. Ninna was curled up on her chest asleep, her tiny mouth bent in its usual smile. Greta protected her with a hand. I stood there breathless. An unforgettable image. Beautiful as a painting. She loved cuddling that little creature.
“Do you realize that if you had fallen asleep you could have crushed her?” I said, but all my anxiety and irritation had melted.
7
Zio Osvaldo. Long, black hair and piercing green eyes. The same green as the forest in June, when the leaves are their brightest and the sun highlights their color, warming them with flashes of golden light. When I was a kid, he was a young man. My big brother–uncle. Partner in play and adventure. Together we would always search for animals to rescue. Once it was a little bird that fell from its nest. Another time a butterfly with a crushed wing. We built little homes for them. We caught insects for baby birds. We brought bouquets of flowers to butterflies.
We created a little pond by digging a suitable hole in a field. We put water in it and—ecco!—a pond. Zio Osvaldo took me fishing nearby. We caught fish with a net, often gorgeous carp with hints of red. They were supposed to be for lunch or dinner, but we granted some a pardon, placing them in the little artificial pond. I topped off the water several times a week, drawing it from a stream that ran near my grandparents’ house. One day, a little upstream, a woman had done some laundry. I hadn’t noticed that the water I was adding to the pond was contaminated with her soap. Not until the fish began gasping at the surface. Desperate, I ran to find my uncle. I remember the anguish. And the guilt. He helped me move the fish to safety in a vat with clear water. We then took all the soapy liquid from the pond and replaced it with clean water—a long and tiring task. Afterward, however, the carp and other little fish could once again splash around in their home.
One time Zio Osvaldo and I found two jays. The circumstances of this discovery
are lost in a fog of shapeless memories. I only remember they were chicks. We put them in a big cage and took very good care of them. We called them Cheep and Chop. I was fascinated by the blue-and-white designs on their wings, by their liveliness and their alert eyes, but even more so by their imitations. They were able to reproduce the calls of other birds and our own childish laughter. And they could talk. They repeated certain words—for example, our names.
It was incredible!
We fed Cheep and Chop acorns, nuts, insects, and bits of meat.
I gave all my animals a name, even some of the chickens my Nonna Caterina raised.
I remember one in particular: I called it Limpie. It was a chick that could barely stand on its feet. They were twisted, maybe even a little deformed.
“I think Limpie is sick. Can I take care of him? Can I keep him?” I pestered my grandmother.
“Come on, Mama. Give it to Massimo,” Zio Osvaldo said in support. “Want to bet he’ll be able to cure it?”
When we successfully wrangled her into agreeing, I started bringing the young chicken out into the sun. Every day. I was sure it was good for him. In the evening, I put him near the wood-burning stove. I fed him and made sure he always had fresh, clean water. I talked to him. I petted him exceedingly. I was probably causing him stress.
Nevertheless, my heart and my child’s remedies performed a miracle, or so it seemed. Limpie’s legs, little by little, grew stronger. And then they straightened up. He started to support himself better, then to walk a few steps, then to take short runs. Cured! Perhaps the chick suffered from some type of rickets that had gone away. Who knows, maybe the exposure to the sun really had made him better.
“It started to run because it couldn’t stand your coddling anymore,” my uncle joked, hugging me and lifting me up. And we both started laughing like crazy.
“Grandma, promise me we’ll never eat Limpie!” I begged her one day. That was the unavoidable fate of animals raised on the farm. She smiled and kissed my forehead. To seal the promise.
I also went searching for slugs with my uncle. Snails, actually. He told me to put on my boots, and we grabbed a pair of buckets and headed out. We would go just as it was about to stop raining. We caught tons of them. Back home, the buckets were delivered to Grandma. But secretly, I’d free handfuls of them. I was afraid Zio Osvaldo might notice, but I knew he’d never rat me out. Or get mad at me.
Sometimes he and I would lie in wait near a bird’s nest. We kept still and silent and watched the parents feed their children. Transfixed, we didn’t move a muscle so as not to disturb them.
I also liked watching cows graze. To me they exuded such serenity. Freedom. An image that still warms my heart today. It’s peace. It’s nature in harmony.
I had three loves as a boy: drawing, stargazing, and helping animals. I didn’t choose art or astronomy. I decided to attend veterinary school.
I dreamed of traveling and being an animal doctor, in Africa perhaps, in contact with the wild.
Or I could focus on bovines and work in the open air, out in the country.
Zio Osvaldo’s presence during my childhood fostered my love of animals and nature.
My big brother-uncle passed away when he was still young. I imagine Zio Osvaldo in a paradise that befits him. I can see him, long hair tousled by the wind, with his forest-colored eyes, with warblers, sparrows, and jays flying around him and landing on his shoulders. The jays chat with him and echo his laughter.
8
Ninna was changing.
As the days passed, fur began to grow all over her body, fur that spread out more or less uniformly. First it emerged over her muzzle, the sides of her nose. It formed like a bunch of tiny buttons that gradually expanded. In some parts, for a very short while, her little body looked like a map. But soon, like a field where the grass grows before your eyes, she was completely covered in a thick carpet. The dark quills on her back became more noticeable. Her nose, ears, and nails grew. She lost her babyish features and took on the appearance of an adult. That was it—she looked just like an adult hedgehog, but in miniature.
I decided that the box she was living in was too small. Between the liner, food plate, water bowl, and Ninna, there wasn’t much room left. I bought a cage—a rabbit hutch, actually—three by five feet, the largest I could find. I set it all up, covering the bottom with layers of newspaper. It seemed to fit my hedgie perfectly. She pattered back and forth, and once she got tired, she went under the little blanket I’d set in the corner.
She was adorable with her dish of food. She’d crouch all the way down and slide her nose under it. Then she’d pitch it up, and it would drop down with a thump. After several tries, she achieved her goal: both plate and food upside down. Then she looked satisfied.
Giulia wrote me:
Ninna needs a house now. Use a cardboard box. A shoebox would work fine. On one side, cut an opening Ninna can go in and out of when she wants. You should put strips of paper in the house. You can use cut-up newspapers or parchment paper. Hedgehogs like to have hay. Do you think you could get some? If you put some of these things next to the house as well, Ninna will take them herself and finish building her nest as she likes!
I got to work right away and made a house out of cardboard a little smaller than a shoebox, but perfect for a hedgehog of Ninna’s size. As soon as it was finished, I put it in the cage. Ninna walked over to it, curious but wary. She sniffed at it. She gave the walls a little lick. Then a more insistent lick, and then another.
After her house tasting, she decided to spend some time self-anointing, since the house’s flavor was new to her. Have completed this “task,” she stuck her head through the door, lifted the house, and slid inside. A few seconds later, she came back out. She started going in and out repeatedly, carefully exploring its interior and exterior, engrossed. When I set some hay and paper strips next to the opening, she took them in her mouth and, little by little, took them inside the box. Now I was sure she liked the house.
She slept peacefully in it, but when she heard a noise, she’d poke out. Sometimes just her nose, if she thought a sniff was enough to analyze the surroundings. It was like she always wanted to be aware of everything going on around her.
I liked when Ninna looked at me. She had sparkling, curious eyes. She turned her little head up toward me, and I would talk to her. She listened to my voice. Sometimes, in a wave of enthusiasm, I would sing her a song or a lullaby. I also liked it when she crawled onto my hands, my fingers. She smelled me meticulously. Sometimes she would try to squeeze into the sleeve of my shirt or sweater. In any case, we had a good rapport, even if we communicated in different ways.
I began offering her different kinds of meat, to vary her diet. I also added fresh fruit. I wanted to enrich the menu with lots of vegetables, but Giulia wrote me:
No, that’s not necessary. Hedgehogs aren’t vegetarians!!!
When I placed the food bowl in her cage, Ninna didn’t come out of her house. She took it with her. You know how snails do? Like that. She went over to the bowl with her house on top of her. Only her muzzle appeared through the door. The rest of her body remained inside. As she ate, the house moved up and down with her. She hadn’t lost her obsession with flipping her dish, but now she preferred to do it with her water bowl. After the usual thump thump thump, a pool spread over the newspaper lining the bottom of the cage.
I looked around and spotted an old ashtray. It was heavy crystal. The perfect bowl! And indeed, the thumping stopped.
Giulia explained:
Now Ninna needs a meal in the late afternoon and another one at night. You might give her a little something to eat first thing in the morning, too. Put her cage in a room with a window or two, so the little one will be exposed to the natural rhythms of night and day, dark and light. Oh, and I almost forgot: During the day, she should sleep, like all hedgehogs! One last thing: Does Ninna bite?
&
nbsp; I thought about that last question. I typed my reply:
Well, Ninna gnaws and bites at everything. But not people, definit—
I didn’t even finish before I was surprised by a loud “ow!” shouted from the next room, where Ninna was. I got there in a nanosecond. “Greta, what happened?”
“Nothing!” she replied, holding her right hand behind her back and trying to look nonchalant.
“Did Ninna bite you?”
“No, no.”
“Let me see,” I told her. The tip of her index finger was a little red.
It had happened. But it wasn’t hard. Just a nibble. Maybe Ninna was irritated, or perhaps she’d mistaken Greta’s finger for something she could eat. Either way, the little creature observed the scene with some interest, without any sense of guilt. But the timing of Giulia’s question was incredible! I advised Greta to be especially careful with Ninna and returned to the e-mail I’d left unfinished. I erased:
But not people, definit—
and wrote:
Not me, ever. However, my girlfriend experienced her teeth just now :( .
Greta came up to me right after that, her left hand supporting her right. The finger in question was pointed and held apart from the others. I felt bad, but it was really no big deal.
“So are we going to the beach tomorrow?” she asked me in a little voice, like a victim. Crap! We had planned the trip awhile ago, and I had forgotten all about it. But how could I resist the young martyr Greta? My two dogs would be easy to farm out. “But what will we do with Ninna?” I asked back.
9
We decided on a quick trip to the sea. We’d leave the next morning—Saturday—and come back late Sunday afternoon. And we’d take Ninna along. I certainly couldn’t have left her at home: Who would take care of her? I packed a bag with the bare necessities: two random shirts, a pair of shorts, flip-flops, a toothbrush, etc. I was done in five minutes. Greta’s bag was already packed. So we started getting Ninna ready. What did I need to bring for her? Well…her cage, of course, newspaper for the bottom, her cardboard house, her water and food bowls, her blanket, a towel, everything for preparing her meals, her hay, a roll of paper towels, etc.
A Handful of Happiness Page 3
