by Laurie Hess
Sugar gliders hadn’t become popular only because they were novel and cute; they were also relatively affordable and available nearly everywhere. I’d seen them for sale at the type of pop-up booths Maxine and now Bob were describing and also listed on Craigslist and eBay.
“You once told me that pet gliders are happiest in pairs and that single gliders get lonely.”
“Because they’re naturally social creatures,” I said. “Yes, that’s right.”
He looked down at Lily and smoothed back the fur between her little ears. “That always stuck with me. Over the years I’d think about getting a second glider to keep her company, but then I never did. When I spotted Mathilda—I don’t know, there was just something about her—I felt like I’d finally found the perfect companion for my girl.”
I shined a light into Mathilda’s tiny ears. They were free of discharge and debris. I used a Q-tip to look into her mouth. As she chewed on the soft cotton end, I smiled at Bob. “You did good. She’s very sweet.”
As I gently palpated Mathilda’s abdomen, I asked, “When did you notice the first signs of sickness?”
He scratched his head and thought for a moment. “I brought her home five days ago, and everything was fine. She was full of life. Very energetic. Playful at night.”
He was describing typical sugar glider behavior. Nocturnal creatures with huge eyes that function better in dim light, captive gliders are most active at night. Most glider owners wearily report that their pets jump from perch to perch and climb the walls of their cages way beyond a suitable bedtime for humans.
“Yesterday I noticed her movements were slow and she wasn’t interested in her food, and then last night she began to have tremors.”
“And Lily?”
“Stronger than Mathilda, but also lethargic. Lying around in her cage. When she didn’t get up to eat this morning, I knew something was wrong with both of them.”
Both of them sick? I was perplexed. All of the gliders that had recently died in my care were babies. But Lily was nearly five years old.
“What are you feeding them?”
“Mealworms, some hard-boiled egg, veggies, and pelleted food with just a little bit of nectar mix.”
I could have hugged him for being so conscientious about his pets’ diet. I educate pet owners about the importance of proper care all day long—at my hospital, at seminars, and in any forum where anyone will listen. I stress that exotic pets deserve exceptional care, and I hammer home the same simple message: learn what your pet needs and give him or her exactly that. Over the years, that’s become my mantra.
The unfortunate reality is that nearly every day I meet pet owners who aren’t providing proper care for their animals. When I examine their pets, I can tell quickly that they are not feeding, sheltering, or caring for their animals in the most optimal way. It isn’t intentional, of course; many pet owners simply lack the correct information. And it’s no wonder. Even a couple of decades ago, there was little scientifically based medical knowledge available about how to properly care for exotic pets, especially when compared with cats and dogs. If even veterinary schools don’t have complete information on the care of exotics, how can the general population know what to do?
I first became aware of this while I was studying for my veterinary doctorate at Tufts. But it wasn’t until the year after I graduated, when I did my exotic animal rotation at the Animal Medical Center in New York City, that I really began to understand how much we didn’t know about caring for these unique animals. People would bring in their pet parrots, turtles, and rabbits, and we vets would struggle just to diagnose their conditions properly. We were often at a total loss as to how to treat them.
Although I’d originally planned on becoming an internist for dogs and cats, during my time at the Animal Medical Center I felt called to specialize in exotics, and it’s been my mission for almost two decades now to learn as much as I can about these animals and provide them with the best possible care.
Even a red-eared slider turtle so small that it fits in your back pocket requires a special blend of TLC. In fact, for their size these popular pets require a lot of specialized care. I will never forget Gertie, who had the telltale red stripe on each side of her head, just behind the eyes, that gives sliders their name. She was four years old and had been fed only iceberg lettuce her whole life, because her owners had read that she needed greens. Like most exotic pets, red-eared sliders need to eat a variety of foods to get all the vitamins, minerals, and other nutrients they need. Her owners didn’t realize that iceberg lettuce isn’t really a green; it’s essentially water with almost no nutrients. It’s not good for turtles, and it doesn’t have much of a nutritional benefit for people, either.
Gertie had never seen a vet before she came to see me, as she had never been sick before. Cat and dog owners generally don’t hesitate to seek out veterinary care when their animals get sick, and they also make annual visits for vaccines and wellness exams. But exotic pet owners tend to wait until their animals are very ill before they seek help, which was what Gertie’s owners had done. They had realized something was wrong only after her behavior changed, and quite drastically. Whereas most any other animal could not have survived on only lettuce for as long as Gertie did, because she’s a reptile with an extremely slow metabolism, she was able to function for longer. For four years she had energetically swum to the end of her tank to greet her owners, Jodie and Bruce, whenever they entered the room, but now she no longer appeared to recognize them. (Despite popular misconception, turtles really do know their owners.) She spent the majority of her days listless in the corner of her tank, unresponsive to her owners’ voices. Jodie and Bruce didn’t know what to do, and fortunately they sought help. When they arrived at my hospital, I could sense immediately that their fondness for their pet turtle was clearly as great as that of any dog or cat owner. I examined Gertie’s top and bottom shells; the carapace and plastron, respectively, as they are called. They were the consistency of a sponge, and I could easily indent her shell by pressing down on it with my index finger. Her head and limbs were limp and hanging out, and she appeared to have no muscle strength left to pull them back in.
I immediately performed a minor surgical procedure to place a red rubber tube through the skin in the side of her neck, through the wall of her esophagus, down into her stomach to feed and medicate her. We put her in the intensive care unit with an ultraviolet lamp shining brightly on her shell to jump-start the production of vitamin D, which is essential both for reptiles and mammals to absorb calcium from their food.
After a few days in the ICU, Gertie began to show positive signs of recovery, and we sent her home, still with the feeding tube sutured to the opening in the skin on her neck in case she needed additional feedings and still couldn’t eat on her own. But at least she was alive. I gave Jodie and Bruce detailed written instructions on how to care for Gertie during recovery, including how to feed her liquid food and calcium through the tube if she continued to be unable to eat on her own. Then I said a silent prayer that she would heal.
After I hadn’t heard from Bruce or Jodie for several weeks, I sadly concluded that Gertie had succumbed to malnutrition and passed away. But nearly three months later, I got a call that Gertie was moving and eating again on her own. Two weeks after that, they reported that she’d become strong enough to rip out the sutures that kept her tube in place, and she’d pulled out the tube herself. She was once again kicking her way from one end of her tank to the other! Her owners couldn’t believe the physical transformation—her squishy shell had hardened once again.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Bruce and Jodie said. “We worried she wouldn’t make it.”
“Spinach, squash, peppers, carrots—even hay,” I instructed. “Keep feeding her the good stuff, and she’ll stay strong.”
They thanked me again and promised, “No more iceberg lettuce.”
Bruce and Jodie had never meant to harm Gertie. They’d simply been unaware of what
she needed to survive and stay healthy. Like so many owners of exotics, they’d had the right intentions but not enough good information.
But Bob Dixon didn’t need a lecture from me on how to care for his beloved sugar gliders. He’d always done everything by the book, and then some, for Lily. A couple of years ago, he’d brought Lily in for a routine checkup and shared with me an article saying that gliders feel more secure eating up high, as they do in their native habitat of old-growth eucalyptus forests. In the wild, sugar gliders hardly ever touch the ground and glide from tree to tree seeking sweet sap and insects.
“I thought I’d build her a wooden nest box atop a series of elevated perches and platforms I’d secure in her cage. Kind of like her own loft or walk-up apartment.”
I appreciated Bob’s woodworker imagination and added my own entrepreneurial twist. “I think you could make a fortune building and selling glider apartments to other glider owners.”
Of all the pet owners who came through my hospital doors, I knew for certain that Bob was doing everything right. If his gliders, Lily and Mathilda, were both gravely sick, something was horribly wrong. Refocusing my attention on the animals, I said, “I’d like to keep them both at the hospital today and possibly overnight to run some blood and chemistry tests and monitor their vitals. Would that be all right with you?”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, pausing and shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t want my wife to know how sick they are.”
Bob had been very clear from his first visit to the hospital years ago that I should not call him at home or mail notes, appointment reminders, or information about Lily’s health to his home address. Bob would call me from his private work line whenever he had a question, and he paid for every visit in cash. Whenever he brought Lily in, he parked his Ford F100 behind the hospital and out of view of passing cars on the two-lane main road. Marnie and I joked that it was as if Lily were in a witness-protection program.
Bob’s glider had been a patient of the hospital for nearly a year before I had the nerve to ask, “I’m curious . . . why are you so secretive about Lily’s care?”
At once, the muscles around his stubbly jawline tensed, and I wished I’d left it alone.
“On second thought,” I said, “it’s really none of my business.”
Bob Dixon wasn’t the first pet owner to make special requests. Ana Fieldsworth, for example, who regularly boards her umbrella cockatoo, Althea, at the hospital when she goes on vacation with her husband, isn’t shy about asking for favors. As extravagant as her owner, Althea is a large bird with a prominent crest of white feathers on her head and long white tail feathers dusted with yellow. The first time Ana left Althea with us, I asked Ana what we could do to ensure that her parrot would be comfortable while she was away. Typically, owners’ requests are fairly straightforward, such as placing a favorite toy in the cage or scratching their animals in a special spot they particularly like, which makes them feel more at home.
“Well, there is one thing,” she chirped.
“Absolutely. What is it?”
“On weekends Chase and I enjoy reading the Sunday Times with some good bagels and salmon spread.”
“Mmmmm,” I agreed. “That’s a nice ritual.” I made a mental note to surprise Peter with a similar spread that Sunday.
“Yes, and Althea loves it, too,” Ana said. “Although she prefers her salmon spread on crackers.”
I looked at her for a moment until it registered that she was asking me to serve Sunday brunch to Althea.
“Um, okay,” I responded with some hesitation. “So you’d like us to get salmon spread for Althea?”
“Oh, God, goodness no,” Ana protested. “I’ll go to Zabar’s to pick it up myself and drop it off before we leave on Friday.”
“Zabar’s, on the Upper West Side?” Manhattan was a good hour’s drive from where Ana lived.
“Yes, that’s the one. Are you familiar with them?”
“Of course. Very good food.” But that wasn’t the point. This was a tall order even for an extravagant bird.
But before I could balk, Ana clapped her hands together and said, “Well then, that settles it. I’ll pick some salmon spread up for you, too.”
The truth is that every pet owner has his or her own way of doing things, and who am I to question anyone’s ritual? In my own home, Peter doesn’t wake up until Gizmo, our biggest gray cat, swipes at his forehead with his paw. The feline has become a more effective alarm clock than the digital version that blasts sports commentary before the sun is up.
So after that first awkward inquiry, I had not asked Bob again why he was cagey about Lily’s care. But now—five years later—he seemed to be offering an explanation.
“My wife, Jeanne, has never approved,” Bob said. “Says Lily is a silly little pet for a big guy like me.”
With his calloused hands and somewhat rigid gait, Bob did look like the kind of man you’d expect to see with a Labrador retriever or a German shepherd. But if I’d learned anything from my years of practice, it was that you can’t help whom you love. Many of us fall for unlikely companions—and this includes pets too.
“My affection for Lily embarrasses her. I embarrass her.” He shifted his gaze toward Mathilda. “And then I brought home another one. She went through the roof.”
Bob paused, and his words sunk in. The disappointment. The shame. The secrecy. And still—an unyielding devotion to his animals. I finally understood the heart of Bob’s conflict. However much his wife loved Bob, only Lily, and now Mathilda, accepted him without terms and conditions.
How many times had I witnessed this? Pets make up for all manner of disappointing human relationships in our lives.
A few years ago, Susan Mitchell brought in her elderly guinea pig, Rosie, with a severe staphylococcus infection. It was one of the worst I’d seen. The charcoal-dipped guinea had scratched herself raw from the skin irritation the bacteria were causing, and she had a rectal prolapse, meaning that portions of her colon were exposed and necrotic. She clearly needed blood work, massive IV antibiotics, and possibly surgery.
“It’s bad, isn’t it? Is she going to die?” Susan asked as she paced back and forth in the examination room.
“She’s in pretty bad shape,” I had to agree. “How old is she?”
“I got her for my twelfth birthday when we moved from Buffalo to Manhattan. She was my first pet.”
Guinea pigs are common first pets, and I frequently recommend them to parents who aren’t sure what to give their child for a first animal. They tend to be friendly, interactive animals, making them great for kids to watch and hold. Generally calm when kids touch them, they even make purring noises, like cats, when they are happy. Their signature squeak makes small children giggle, and when they are excited, young guinea pigs will often jump straight up into the air, a behavior called popcorning. Sometimes, an ill guinea pig is just old, arthritic, and weak. Their average life span is around seven to eight years, but Susan looked to be about twenty-five, which would make Rosie in the neighborhood of thirteen.
“Rosie’s been with me through everything—my first kiss, when I started driving, went to prom, and graduated from college. When I got engaged, Rosie was the first to know!”
I looked at Susan sympathetically and thought of my own devoted companion, Dale, a parrot who had likewise taken my side through breakups, makeups, and other life events. Dale was a baby when he “found” me. During my internship, I was at a pet store taking blood for an avian study, and a little green-and-blue squawky parrot kept hopping off his perch to chew on my sleeve. No matter how many times I shooed him away, he continued to hop over and demand my attention. I finally realized he was trying to tell me something: I am yours, and you are mine. I adopted Dale that afternoon and took him home. Twenty years later, Dale lives with me still.
I gently picked up Rosie and examined the dried out, dark-colored colon protruding from her rectum. Rosie’s infection had been ignored for some
time, which didn’t make sense given the shared history together that Susan was describing.
A cell phone buzzed in Susan’s pink Kate Spade purse. She quickly pulled it out, checked who it was, and just as abruptly put it away.
“That’s my husband, Keith,” she said a minute later. “We just made an offer on a house in Connecticut. He’s worried about the money. We have car payments, bills, and, well”—her voice trailed off—“he’s not really a pet person.”
“Shall I let you two speak in private?”
“No.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk to him right now.”
I placed Rosie back in Susan’s arms. As if she couldn’t help it, tears tumbled down her face and onto Rosie’s dark coat. I reflexively handed her a tissue.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Take as much time as you need.”
“I love him,” she said and swallowed hard, “but Keith doesn’t see Rosie the same way I do.” She stroked the top of Rosie’s head, and the aged guinea pig gently closed her eyes and purred at Susan’s touch. “She’s my best friend.”
“Of course she is,” I said.
I’ve seen firsthand, countless times, how animals can expand and change the lives of the people who take them into their homes. Traditional dog and cat owners may find it hard to imagine that a spiny hedgehog or a squawky macaw can also snuggle and nuzzle and make an affectionate pet or that even the clumsiest potbellied pig can walk on a leash, but I’ve witnessed unbreakable bonds between humans and these special animals that defy explanation again and again.
“Would you believe my best friend is a cranky old parrot?” I asked. “Although when I first got him he was just a sweet baby with a newly feathered, fuzzy head.”
Susan gave me a weak smile and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Her diamond solitaire caught the light. Three carats, maybe four—it was hard to miss. She followed my gaze and tucked her hand away.
“Take a minute,” I said, “while I consult my head tech on how best to start treating for the treatable.” Vets commonly make this statement when a patient is in a fragile state. It means we’ll give the best possible treatment we can, but some things may be beyond our power to remedy or heal.
