Realizing another dream of mine, we got a special permit to arrange adoptions, under our supervision, of permanently disabled hedgehogs. They would go to people who meet certain requirements. They live good and dignified lives in their pens, in appropriate yards.
My mother adopted one, too.
My mom isn’t doing well. She has chronic pulmonary emphysema, and she’s constantly attached to an oxygen tank. She has a primary one installed in the house and a smaller one for walking around.
It’s very difficult for her to move, and every breath costs her. But in the pen in the yard, there’s this handicapped hedgehog. And she, overcoming her own disabilities, goes to him with her tank and takes care of him with attention and love.
Like little Sofia, my Momma Franchina has a big heart. You can learn a lot from big hearts. They know how to give in a heartbeat.
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The days added up, and the months, with other hedgehog stories, new joys, and new struggles.
It was February when a woman called. She told me she needed help.
“I have a female African hedgehog that’s not doing well,” she explained.
“I don’t have any experience with African hedgehogs, only European,” I said. “You should consult a veterinarian who specializes in exotic animals.”
“I don’t know of any,” she replied. “My hedgehog gave birth to a hoglet five days ago, and since then she has been bleeding quite a lot.”
“Bring her over right away.” To avoid losing precious time, I would consult some experts myself. That little lady needed help, urgently.
When I saw mama and baby, I simply melted. The hedgehog was just beautiful. A little four-hundred-gram creature (African hedgehogs are smaller) with a white nose and two sugar eyes. She was a little pink squirt with short spines, like a toothbrush. She was the portrait of boundless suffering, at the end of her rope. Yet when her baby came near, she found the strength to rub its nose with her own and lick it. Slow and sweet. The image of maternal love. Then the hoglet nuzzled around for her nipples, looking for milk. From nipples to nose, nose to nipples.
I was sorry for all that hedgehog’s pain. And, just as many other times, I couldn’t find any sense in it. It truly pained me. That mama hedgehog’s blood seemed like the blood of all the innocent creatures in this world.
I sprang into action. Hemostatic. Antibiotic. Hydration IV. Calcium. And then I called the Vale Wildlife Hospital. I described the situation in minute detail, and they told me it was very serious, but that the hedgehog could possibly be saved by surgery. Possibly.
So I called a colleague who handled exotic animals and brought the hedgehog to him.
“I’m not sure she’ll be able to endure the operation, given her state. But if we leave her like she is, there’s no hope,” he said.
“Let’s try the surgery,” I decided.
I assisted. In that tiny belly, we made an incision just over a centimeter. We extracted the uterus. A retained placenta was the cause of the hemorrhage and the infection. The hedgehog was completely monitored, and everything went well. Once the operation was over, we left her under the oxygen mask for a while. She woke up slowly. When she started to move, I put her hoglet next to her. She licked its little head.
I hugged my fellow vet. We did it! We were elated.
Ten minutes after our explosion of joy, the little hedgehog gagged a couple of times. And within seconds, she was dead.
The image of that baby hedgie curled up to its dead mother stayed with me.
My return home was colored black. I buried the hedgehog under a centuries-old olive tree in the yard. That’s where I bury all the hedgehogs that die. And the olive blooms every spring.
All I could do was take care of the orphaned hoglet. It was a little girl. I called her Carolina. She weighed nine grams.
Nine grams. A rosebud weighs more.
“Carolina, you won’t end up like your mother. I’ll do my best. I won’t make any mistakes. And you’ll be saved,” I promised.
The following day, I had a doctor’s appointment with a specialist in Milan. I couldn’t change it, so I decided to take the hoglet with me. With all the necessary precautions, of course. I prepared a portable nursery, complete with food. A thermos to heat it up. And two hot water bottles to make sure she had the right temperature. One I would use right away, and before it cooled down, I would stop at a café for some hot water to fill the spare. After several stops, I finally reached Milan. I parked right in front of the medical building. I didn’t like leaving Carolina in the car alone, but I had no alternative.
I was early, but I already needed a change of hot water. I took the empty water bottle and rang the buzzer. “Third floor,” an anonymous voice said. I went up and entered that office, which was so luxurious I felt intimidated. I was greeted by a formal, rather haughty secretary. The mannered half-smile she gave me turned into a bewildered look when I showed her the water bottle and asked for some hot water. She directed me to the bathroom.
I was just coming out when a door opened. The medical luminary I was supposed to meet with was showing a patient out. He was impressive. Very tall. He saw me. I felt like I was at school, dealing with the most demanding, strict teachers. He raised his left eyebrow. Pointedly. He looked at me and then the hot water bottle. His eyes opened wider, forming a question mark. I felt obliged to offer an explanation.
“I…I…I have an appointment…an appointment with you. For an exam. But I have a…a…little animal in my car,” I sputtered.
“A little animal?”
“A hedgehog.”
“A hedgehog?”
He was like my echo, and he was only becoming more perplexed.
He was sizing me up.
“Uh, yeah. A baby. But it’s a long story. Maybe when it’s my turn, I’ll tell you about it,” I said.
There. I’d made my usual impression as a—to put it mildly—strange character!
My turn came two and a half hours later. In the meantime, I’d checked on Carolina six or seven times.
“Good morning, Professor,” I said.
“Good morning. Now will you explain?”
He’d been curious that whole time!
“I’m a veterinarian. I work with cattle. However…” I began, and I told him briefly about Ninna and the others. And Carolina and her mama. And this big, authoritative man melted. He was touched. And he asked me questions. He wanted to know, to understand.
“I’m a little worried because Carolina is in the car,” I concluded.
“No! Bring her up!”
I ran to get her.
“She’s a wonderful little thing,” the luminary said.
Fortunately, the exam went well. Before letting me go, he told the secretary, “Special discount for the vet. He’s got a child to raise.” We said good-bye, laughing.
I was hungry. I picked up a couple of vegan sandwiches and parked in a little alley that had a view of the Duomo and the piazza. And there, I ate my two sandwiches, admiring all that beauty with the little hedgie sleeping peacefully beside me. A drop of happiness.
29
Despite all her struggles, Carolina grew. Now she weighed fifty grams. She was extraordinary and very sweet. She called me with a particular cry. A tiny pih, pih, piiih. That little voice of hers was delightful.
One night a snowstorm broke out. It raged fiercely for most of the night. At a certain point, the electricity went out. It came back on right away, but then went out again. In that back-and-forth, the boiler quit working. And there was no getting it going again. The house rapidly got cold. Too cold. I panicked because I was afraid for Carolina. Such a low temperature was extremely dangerous for her. I got an electric heater and put it in the room where she was. As soon as the power came back, I turned it on. Meanwhile, outside, the snow had reached over three feet.
The next morning, Carolina’s breathing was faster. An
d she was a little colder. I gave her an antibiotic. But in the days that followed, the little thing worsened. I asked every expert I could reach for help. But the situation didn’t turn. One morning she called me: pih, pih, piiih…I ran to her. “Carolina, are you hungry? I’ll get your food right now.” I picked her up as I spoke. But I realized immediately that she was letting go.
And so, in an instant, right there in my hands, she expired. I dropped down on a chair, burdened with a sharp, boundless grief. “I didn’t want you to end up like your mother, I didn’t want you to,” I murmured.
It wasn’t fair.
I felt a tremendous burden of guilt. Whether I was right or not, that didn’t bring the hoglet back to life.
I buried her much later. Next to her mama. With some lavender. Over the earth that covered her, I placed a heart-shaped stone. A shield for her.
All around, almost without end, bright-white snow.
On Sundays Greta and I often went to see Daniela. She was sick. She had been for fifteen years. She was sick even when she’d organized that trip to Australia. Cancer. Sometimes it seemed to have gone away, but then it would come back.
Daniela had always given me moral support with my plan for the center. She enthusiastically approved everything I did. She loved animals. And all of nature. And she had a deep respect for it. She was such a radiant and intelligent and wise person. She was like a sister to me.
Her illness had come back and this time had metastasized to her lungs.
My dear friend’s condition was very serious and made us fear the worst.
When we went to see her, I’d tell her about the hedgehogs to distract her. She listened attentively, with a faint smile. But she struggled to speak. She needed what little strength she had left to breathe.
She was suffering greatly. The burden of my sorrows was increased by the terrible torment of seeing her that way.
I didn’t tell her Carolina was dead. I didn’t want to make her any more upset.
One Sunday I brought her a picture of the African hoglet, along with a hundred others, because she was helping me to organize Hedgehog Day. I showed it to her, and she parted her lips to say something. But she couldn’t. Daniela stayed with her mouth half-open for a while. With her voice not coming out. So she spoke with her eyes, telling me that Carolina touched her heart. Then, very slowly, she reached out and set the picture on her nightstand so she could see it whenever she wanted.
As Greta and I left, I lingered before closing the door behind me. I turned around, and my eyes met Daniela’s. She was looking at me with infinite sweetness. I lingered a moment to return the gaze. A look full of kind words. And hugs. And heartfelt whispers: Don’t be afraid…I to her and she to me. Moments of enormous intensity, saturated with emotion. Eyes that did not want to part, ever. We could both feel that we were saying good-bye for the last time.
Greta and I silently headed to the car. It was late. The moon, unmindful of human despair, shone in the dark of a cloudless sky. At that so difficult moment, I couldn’t bear that great beauty. It clashed with my sadness.
We got home and went right to bed. But I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning fitfully with my mind on Daniela. It was almost dawn when the phone rang. It was on the nearby dresser.
Greta leapt up and ran to answer it. “Yes…” she said, and then she burst into tears. I went to her, and already I know. Between sobs, she confirmed, “Daniela’s gone.” I hugged her tight, trying to console her. And trying to soothe my own broken heart.
I closed my eyes and went to my sister-friend: “Hi, my dear Daniela. Wherever you are, or wherever you’re going, take Carolina with you. And her mother, too. They’re two defenseless little creatures. Do you want to take care of them?”
Maybe it was just my imagination, but I felt like she replied. Nothing moved in the room, but the wind chimes hanging nearby swayed with a timid ding-ding. It was like “Yes, Massimo…” A subtle vibration, fading into my thoughts. Lifting them up.
30
Hubbub. The center was full of excitement. Yes, because I wanted to share hedgehogs and their world, and sensitize as many people as possible, and create a playful moment, and gather aid. How could I squeeze all these objectives into one day? I had an idea: Hedgehog Day! What date should it be? I’d thought of February, when there’s the least work to be done with the hedgies, and the choice came down to Sunday the 22nd. The organizational work had begun a few months earlier, but now we were almost there, and we were in full frenzy.
Greta, besides printing out lots of pictures of our hedgehogs, had also made postcards with sweet and funny sayings, bookmarks, posters, drawings, and figurines. All “hedgehog themed.” All made by hand. She had really gone out of her way. And she wasn’t the only one. The other volunteers had, too. Together, we’d inspired one another’s imaginations and compiled our energies. A very generous friend had offered a space at her bed and breakfast for the party and the lunch. The wife of a friend of mine who’s a wedding planner took care of the catering and decorating with good taste and definite impact. Others added to the menu by bringing additional dishes and mountains of cookies (hedgehog shaped). We made a learning zone with informational panels and more photos of our hedgehogs and drawings done by a professional cartoonist. It was crazy, far beyond our expectations.
But that wasn’t enough. I thought we needed something more to liven it up. Dario! Yes, I had to get in touch with my friend Dario. He had a band. I called him up, and the band agreed to come to the party, including the singer.
What else was left? A raffle with some nice prizes up for grabs? Perfect! But how would we get those prizes? It was the moment to be shameless and go knocking on a few doors. So I did. And I found more than I had hoped for. From a publishing house, I got books, magazines, kids’ games. Innumerable treats from a world-famous chocolate company. Organic products from a food company. Fine wine from a prestigious winery (including forty bottles of Barolo!). And much more from many others. I, Greta, and all the volunteers were thrilled and extremely happy.
And then…boom. Everything came screeching to a halt.
Because Daniela died.
She died one week before February 22, and I didn’t feel like throwing a party. I just couldn’t do it.
But everything had already been set in motion. The invitations had already gone out, and a hundred people had RSVP’d. Families with children. How could I let them all down? And my hedgehogs needed help. Medicines, food, equipment—everything costs money. Daniela would have come to the party and made it even better. So I closed my eyes and spoke to her again: “Daniela, I’m going to have the party. And you’ll be there, too. Because I’ll take you with me.”
On Saturday the 21st, during the night, it snowed copiously. A constant, silent flurry of thick, fat snowflakes. I was outside shoveling snow in the hedgehog pens, since I never let snow completely bury their houses or the paths leading up to them, and I thought that, with the weather, no one would come to Hedgehog Day. I shoveled, worried. Nothing but the sound of my shovel. My hands got so numb they hurt. But my discouragement was worse. I thought that the roads might be impassable. Lots of people probably wouldn’t leave home. At dawn, the snowflakes became small and sparse. They danced erratically in the air. Then stopped. I didn’t go to sleep, staying up getting the last things ready for the party nonetheless.
It was ten thirty in the morning when the owner of the bed and breakfast called, worried. “Massimo, help!”
“Oh God, what happened?” I asked, alarmed.
“You have to come over here,” she said. “I’m full of people. I don’t know where to put them! The whole world showed up!”
I rushed over. I couldn’t believe it. Even with that terrible weather, everyone had come. Everyone. Except Greta and my mother. My mother due to her poor health. Greta had helped me to the very last minute, but had told me she wasn’t going to come. Because of Daniela.
I began by greeting and thanking everyone, then continued. “Today, my friend Daniela was supposed to be here with me.” I said that in reality, she was, because I carried her in my heart. I told them about her, about her enthusiasm for my work with hedgehogs, about her love for nature. Then I talked about the center, about Ninna, Carolina, Jo, and all the others. In the hall, only my voice, occasionally breaking with emotion.
When I finished, there was a shower of applause, and it was then that I noticed all the people with wet eyes, veiled with tears. Patrizia—she had come with her whole family—was fearlessly, uncontrollably crying and at the same time passing tissues to everyone around her. My father came up to me a few moments later. “Good job, Massimo. You gave a proper speech. It was moving. From the heart, from yours to everyone else’s here.” What a feeling to hear those words from him. I’ll never forget it.
Dario’s band started up, and their notes, accompanied by the lead singer’s mellifluous voice, wafted through the room. The party went off well, culminating in a huge cake with chocolate frosting. Which, sure enough, was in the shape of a hedgehog. I put a candle on top. It was also Susanna’s birthday—she was with us, too—and it seemed right to surprise her with that gesture.
The inaugural Hedgehog Day, safe to say, was a smashing success.
Then there was the second one. Did it live up to the first? No…it topped it! Same atmosphere, fantastic decorations, the finest partners, and a really fun treasure hunt outside, since the weather permitted it. That all-around beautiful and productive day, we also freed some birds that had been rescued by the Wildlife Recovery Center in Cuneo. Their soaring into flight was pure poetry for us all.
A Handful of Happiness Page 11
