A Handful of Happiness

by Massimo Vacchetta

  I found myself thinking how crazy it was that such a small being needed so much stuff! After an hour and a half, her bags were ready. Another thought popped into my head: Before meeting Ninna, it definitely would have taken me an hour and a half to pack my bags.

  It made me laugh a little.

  It took me longer to load the car because I wanted Ninna to be comfortable and safe in her cage. I tried several arrangements before getting it right.

  Finally, we were ready. But it had come time to feed the little one. What could we do? Feeding her right before we left meant she might throw up. But I didn’t have the heart to let her go hungry. I didn’t want that or to risk making her weak. I decided on a light meal, followed by a short rest so she could digest.

  It was late by the time we managed to get out the door. I was behind the wheel, Greta beside me, Ninna behind. I drove slowly so as not to upset the little one too much. But she was stressed. She hid under her blanket, then she’d pop out in a corner and start pacing around her cage. Then she’d try to climb up the walls before going back under her blanket, only to come out almost immediately and start the whole dance over again. She was definitely disturbed. Nervous, I’d say. I felt guilty for having put her in this situation. When the road was all twists and turns, it was even worse because Ninna was tossed left and right. We stopped at least ten times, to let her calm down.

  “You think she’d relax if I held her?” Greta asked at a certain point.

  “It’s not ideal, you know. If I had to brake suddenly, she might fall. But I am going pretty slow…All right, let’s try,” I said.

  So Greta took Ninna, set her on her knees, and covered her with the blanket, to make her feel more secure. But the little hedgehog was uncontrollable. You could see all her movements under the little cover, which bounced and fluttered constantly. Her nose would pop out from one side and then the other, in rapid succession.

  “Take away the cover. Maybe it’s bothering her,” I suggested. But that didn’t work.

  “Maybe she wants to look out the window,” Greta said laughing, but it was a laugh dotted with stress.

  And we were only halfway there.

  A few miles farther, a police patrol signaled for us to pull over. One of the two officers came up to the window. “License and registration.” I handed them over. He took his time to run the check. So I asked him, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he replied. But at the same time, waving my documents in his hands, he started examining the car.

  “Your tires are bald. I have to write you up,” he declared. I remembered I had an appointment that coming Monday at the tire store, but I didn’t tell him that. There was little chance he’d believe me and not give me a ticket.

  “Today is really a bad day,” I thought, looking down at the steering wheel.

  “What’s that?” the policeman asked, pointing at Ninna. He’d just noticed her.

  “It’s a baby hedgehog,” I answered.

  “Come get a look at this,” he said to the other officer, who was waiting nearby, leaning against his motorcycle.

  Both of them, their heads craning through the window, looked at Ninna in awe.

  “How cute! Is it a boy or a girl?” the first policeman asked.

  “How old is it?” the other chimed in.

  I told them the whole story as they listened intently, even a bit fascinated. Meanwhile, Ninna relaxed.

  In the end, they decided not to give me a ticket.

  “You’re a good vet. But change those tires as soon as possible,” the first officer said. Then, perhaps to hide his emotion, he said good-bye with a little joke: “Take it easy. Drive carefully. You’ve got the whole family in the car!” He laughed, and we laughed along with him.

  We finally made it to the sea, but not without more—many more—stops so Ninna could rest. Moreover, she vomited at some point, hurling my sense of guilt through the roof.

  Once we found the apartment where we were staying—which belonged to some friends—we unloaded Ninna and her cage. We set her up in a corner of the spacious kitchen, then took care of the rest. And Greta and I finally went to the beach. But my mind constantly drifted to the little creature who was now in an unfamiliar house. I wasn’t sure she felt comfortable. Also, I would have liked to show her the sea. But that wasn’t possible. Too much sun, too many people.

  However.

  I was formulating a plan. After a nice dinner and a romantic walk, Greta went to bed. Not me. I had to wait for Ninna’s feeding time. When I was sure my girlfriend was asleep, I put my plan into motion. I grabbed a hat I always kept in the car, put Ninna inside it, and tiptoed out of the apartment. I went to the pier and sat down where the jetty disappeared into the cliffs. It was late, and there weren’t many people around. Just a couple of fishermen farther away. My little Ninna’s face popped out from the hat. Her quick, shining eyes looked around. Her nose sniffed the air in search of new stories. It was a starry night.

  “Ninna, this is the sea. Without me, you never would have seen it,” I whispered to her. We stayed there a long time, lulled by the music of the waves and enveloped in the salty air. I crept back in as quietly as I’d left. I didn’t want Greta to hear me. She already knew I was a little crazy, but I didn’t want her to start really believing it.

  The next day, in the afternoon, we returned home. Trip over. But I was happy because Ninna had seen the sea. And I’d learned something: Hedgehogs can get carsick and can help you get out of tickets. I hadn’t realized, though, that I was humanizing Ninna too much. I had fallen into thinking of her as a baby. My baby. But that wasn’t good.

  10

  I loved watching Ninna and found every little thing she did so sweet. Often when I got back from work, I’d take her out of her cage and let her roam around the house a bit. At first, she was wary, but in no time she got used to it. She would patter around everywhere. “Ninna, Ninnaaa,” I called, and many times, she would come running. Not always, though. If she was occupied with something she deemed more interesting, I came in second.

  I was getting very attached to her. And to think that when I was little, I’d promised myself not to let other animals into my heart.

  Nero was a wound that had left me with a big scar, a mark on my soul. I was 6 or so when some friends of my father’s gave him to us. The puppy was chubby, strong, and beautiful. All black, except for the spots on his nose. Surely his family tree included various breeds, but in him the German shepherd was clearly predominant. I remember our first night with him. We closed him in the kitchen, but I could hear his yelping all the way in my room. So I quietly slid out of bed, went to him, and comforted him, petting him for a long time. Without a sound, I brought him to bed with me. Nero calmed down, and we slept side by side. And we did so every night thereafter. When I got home from school, he would greet me excitedly. For us both, it was a joy.

  But the puppy grew up and got bored being by himself all day. In the house from eight to five, he got into all kinds of trouble. Finally my parents decided—for everybody’s good, including Nero’s—to leave him with my grandparents. He’d have more space to run and play and more company. Zio Osvaldo would take care of him. For me, it was devastating to be separated from my dog, even though my parents would take me to visit him after work every few days. And I got to enjoy him during school holidays. Then, we were inseparable.

  One day, he and I were wandering around in the fields. We had gone out farther than normal. I was on my bike, and he happily followed behind. We passed by a farm, and I saw a boy, older than me, with a big, ferocious-looking dog. I was afraid. I could sense something dramatic was about to happen, something brutal. And then, the boy sicced his dog on us. Nero and I had nowhere to go. We couldn’t get away. They were too close. That dog would be on us in a matter of seconds. I was frozen. Nero—all the fur on his body standing on end—didn’t back down.

  Like darts, the two heaved
themselves at each other. Jaws open, bright-white fangs bared. After a violent tussle, the other dog started to back away and retreat. Nero had won the battle. He came back to me, his eyes still on fire. There was a streak of blood under his right ear, but nothing serious. We dashed out of there.

  My dog had protected me. He’d saved me. I always felt safe with him.

  A few years later, Nero got run over by a truck while I was at school. When they told me, I was heartbroken. I cried all the tears a little boy has in him. That was when I swore I would never get attached to an animal again. I wouldn’t let my heart get broken like that again.

  Never again! And so it was.

  That is, until I met Lilly.

  After I graduated from college, my parents split up, but—contrary to my childish fears—I didn’t lose them when they got divorced. They were happier that way, as was I. Sometimes people would abandon dogs near my mother’s house. Word had spread that she would take care of them. Sometimes there were even pregnant females, so there would be puppies later on, too.

  One day a few years ago, my mother called me and said, “Massimo, I’m really worried about this puppy. I don’t know what happened, but one of her paws is hurting her. Actually, she won’t even put her weight on it. You have to come and have a look as soon as you can.” I rushed over. The little thing—a red Volpino, female, five or six months old—had a fractured paw. I took her to Remo, a colleague of mine who specialized in small animal orthopedics. He confirmed my diagnosis and told me he’d operate a few days later. I kept the puppy until the surgery, which I assisted, and it all went fine. In order to oversee her recovery, I took the puppy to my place.

  “Call her Lilly. She looks like a Lilly!” a neighbor suggested one day. So Lilly it was.

  One month after the operation, she needed another, to remove the pin that had been inserted to mend the fracture. I set up a time with Remo and took her over. Without realizing it, I’d grown attached to that little puppy—to the extent that the second surgery seemed to drag on forever, even though it was actually much faster and simpler than the first. What anxiety I had! I was definitely emotionally involved.

  When the operation was finished, the puppy lay on her side with an IV still in. Her eyes were closed. I went over, bent down to her, and whispered, “Lilly…Lillyyy…” The only response was the continuous thump, thump, thump, thump of her tail hitting the steel post-operation table. She couldn’t reply, but she wagged her tail at the sound of my voice. I was touched. With that little tail, she stole my heart for good.

  But I swore to myself, just her! No one else!

  A few months later, my mother called me about Jack, a puppy who’d had a bout of diarrhea. I brought him home to take care of him. Lilly was jealous, but they quickly became fast friends. And Jack was so lovable and affectionate! Once he recovered, he kept me company while I built a stone wall in the yard. Constantly by my side, he started playing with the stones I was using. He still has an obsession with them to this day. I think he’s the only dog in the world who spends time transporting stones. If there’s a rock around, he feels obligated to take it in his front paws and drag it backward from one spot to another. He’s a strong dog; he’ll even pick up big stones, leaving furrows in the grass.

  When I realized I was attached to him too, I promised myself again: just Jack and Lilly! No one else!

  As I watched Ninna scampering through the kitchen, I found myself thinking, “Okay, okay! Just Lilly, Jack, and Ninna!” What a disaster! But that’s just how I am.

  11

  I only let Ninna roam free through the house under my direct supervision. Left to her own devices, she could start chewing on an electric cord or eat something that would harm her. Or get herself into some sort of trouble. There were too many dangers.

  But I loved hearing her walk around! It made me happy. And she seemed cheerful and playful. When I put her back in her cage, she sent me clear signals of discontent. She couldn’t stand being confined anymore. She’d pace back and forth without stopping, visibly aggravated. Especially at night. I brought her cage into my room, thinking that being able to hear me might calm her down.

  It didn’t work. I woke up a hundred times and always found her clinging to the walls of her prison, with her little nose poking out from the netting, looking at me, her eyes piercing. She seemed like she wanted to ask me for something.

  Before, I didn’t sleep because I had to feed her; now, I couldn’t sleep because she was making a horrible racket. I was getting burned out. For my own survival, I moved the cage back into the other room. But this didn’t eliminate the problem of Ninna’s restlessness.

  And I couldn’t stand her being unhappy.

  I shared my new problem with Giulia. She wrote back quickly:

  Ninna weighs over three hundred grams now. You can put her in a pen outside. Little by little, she will readjust to her natural habitat. She’ll be happier. You’ll see, she’ll even learn how to hunt.

  I chose a suitable place in the yard and fenced it off. I put Ninna there often. She frolicked around, pleased with this half-freedom. But I, anxious as always, didn’t let her out of my sight.

  Meanwhile, a trip I’d had planned for a long time—since January, to be precise—was approaching. Departure was scheduled for mid-August.

  It wasn’t just any vacation, it was my life dream.

  It was a trip through Africa with three of my best friends: Enrico, a veterinarian and a mentor of mine; Matteo, another veterinarian and lifelong friend; and Dario, the only non-vet, but a friend and an all-around good guy. It was an organized tour. There would be another ten or eleven people, plus the guide and drivers. We would arrive in Namibia, cross the Kalahari Desert to Botswana, and then travel to various national parks, ending at Victoria Falls.

  I was torn between two emotions: a boundless desire to take this trip and a bottomless sorrow to leave Ninna.

  If I were to go, who would watch her? This was a real problem. It wasn’t a trip to the seashore. I couldn’t just bring her along. I talked to my mother and my cousin Francesco. He’s Zio Osvaldo’s only son. He takes after him, too. The same big heart. The same love of animals and nature. Francesco told me right away, “Massimo, you go, and rest assured, I can take care of Ninna. Trust me!”

  “And I’m here! I can take care of her, too,” my mother chimed in enthusiastically.

  Everybody loves Ninna!

  I trusted both of them, completely.

  Francesco and I would build a pen in my mother’s yard. Every night they’d put Ninna inside it for a few hours. I didn’t want her there all night. I was afraid of a hostile visit from some nocturnal predator. The rest of the time, she’d stay in her cage. I gave them all her feeding instructions and concluded, of course, with several other pieces of advice. They both listened carefully. It truly was the ideal solution. Plus, Francesco lived right across from my mother, which would make it easy for him to come and go.

  We built Ninna’s pen under a cherry tree. The dense foliage would supply the necessary shade. We made a rectangle with corrugated plastic sheets and planted it four inches into the ground. That way, if Ninna decided to dig a tunnel out—hedgehogs dig!—she’d be blocked. For good measure, we placed stones all around the perimeter for extra safety. When it was finished, the pen was ten by thirteen feet and one and a half feet tall. Inside, we placed Ninna’s new house on a brick base: a wooden house that used to be a box of fine wine. I had made a hole on one side for the door and gave it a reinforced roof, insulated with nylon. Then, with Francesco’s help, I placed an awning over part of the pen right over the house. This way, even if there was an unexpected storm, Ninna could take shelter.

  The eve of my departure arrived. I had everything prepared but was still wavering. It was a very expensive trip, and I’d already paid the full amount in advance. If it were possible to get my money back, maybe I could back out…

  That night, I loa
ded Ninna and all her bags in the car. Then I put Lilly and Jack in and left for my mother’s. She and Francesco were expecting me. The two dogs were used to staying there when I went on vacation or had to go away for a few days. They happily leapt to greet both her and my cousin and then went off in search of their favorite spots, just to make sure everything was the same since the last time they’d been there. For Ninna, however, it was all new.

  I checked every inch of the pen one more time. And I went through everything Mama and Francesco had to do for Ninna once again. Then I finally left my “kids” in their good hands, and only after endless farewells did I return to my place.

  Coming home without Lilly and Jack’s cheerful welcome or Ninna’s scampering left and right made me feel alone. A shiver ran down my spine. There was too much silence. It was full, round—deafening. The house seemed needlessly large. And above all, empty. I found myself thinking, as I tossed and turned in bed, how selfish I was: I’d put a vacation before my two dogs and hedgehog. They would have been calmer at home and maybe even safer. I was worried about Ninna. How would she react to not seeing me? And being handled by people she didn’t know? What if she fell? Or ran away? Tormented, all my worries kept my eyes wide open. I drifted off just when the light of dawn began to take over the dark. By then it was just a couple of hours before I had to leave for the airport. One thing was certain: Since I’d met Ninna, for one reason or another, I’d never had a single night of peaceful sleep.