by Laurie Hess
“Let’s run a series of general blood tests and get a stool sample on this little one. I want to monitor him closely. If he begins to show even the slightest sign of sickness, let me know. If he remains healthy, well then, it’s much less likely that the farm is the source of illness.” Less likely, I thought, but still possible.
I LEFT MARNIE with Baby G and walked back to my office. I closed the door and dialed Hannah’s number at her clinic in Long Island.
“Laurie,” she answered after the first ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wish this were just a friendly catch-up call.”
I started at the beginning, recounting how each of the four gliders admitted to my hospital in the past two weeks had gotten sick and died. I described Mathilda’s deteriorating condition and Lily’s less severe but similar symptoms. I concluded with my inspection of Simon’s farm.
“Conditions are clean, and the gliders all appear healthy,” I said. “But a new shipment of gliders goes on sale at Winslow Mall tomorrow. I’m really praying that another doesn’t become sick.”
Hannah said. “If the breeder knows they’re getting sick, why doesn’t he hold off on the shipment?”
“He doesn’t have room for them. He’s housing hundreds of gliders at a time. And he’s convinced they’re leaving his farm healthy. Says he checks every animal for parasites, diarrhea, or any other sign of infection the day they ship. If there’s any question they’re sick, he doesn’t put them on the truck.”
“So then are they getting sick in transport?” Hannah was asking me the same progression of questions I’d asked Simon before heading back to the hospital.
“He doesn’t think that’s it, either. According to the vendors, they’re arriving at the malls in good health.”
“But there’s some connection between his pet gliders and all the deaths?” Hannah asked.
“There seems to be.” I ran my hand through my hair. I just didn’t know what it was.
“Okay,” said Hannah. “Send me the blood test results and films of all the gliders that have gotten sick, including Lily’s and Mathilda’s, and I’ll take a fresh look.”
“I really appreciate it. Call me tomorrow?”
“You bet,” she assured me. “As soon as I know anything.”
4
MEET ME IN THE MIDDLE
THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M., ANIMAL HOSPITAL
“As you can see, Pinky is a bit more than we bargained for,” said Jim as he let his six-foot-long Nile monitor out of an extra-large gym bag.
Wearing a pressed plaid button-down shirt and crisp Dockers, Jim was handling his pet reptile with yellow oven mitts. As soon as he set the big lizard down on the floor, the animal began to thrash about, whipping his tail left and right and extending his long reptilian tongue nearly a foot in every direction. His sharp claws raked across the tile floor. Despite his energy and size, he didn’t look healthy; his skin had peeled in many places, and his coloring looked off.
Many species of lizards make popular pets. Iguanas are probably the most popular of the larger lizards because they bond closely with their owners. Nile monitors, on the other hand, tend to be quite feisty and formidable creatures, and, in all honesty, they don’t make the best pets. They’re aggressive, strong, and not at all shy about using their powerful bite. In order to manage pet owners’ expectations about how their interactions will go with a Nile monitor as it gets older, I’ve been known to say, “If you’re going to bring home a Nile monitor, be sure to have a first aid kit at hand.”
I’d expected Pinky to be grumpy, but I hadn’t been prepared for him to be so big. Nile monitors can grow as long as seven feet, but I’d never seen one this big in captivity. Pinky was the size of a small alligator.
“I promise you,” Jim’s girlfriend, Becky, said, giggling nervously, “he wasn’t even half this size when we bought him.”
She backed away just as Pinky’s three-foot-long tail whipped around in her direction.
“He was just the cutest little thing running up and down my arm.” She made a flitting motion with her fingertips on her white cashmere cardigan.
Because this was my first introduction to Pinky, I stood back initially. His owners were sure to be more familiar with their reptile’s particular moods than I was, so I watched as Jim attempted to corner the animal and pick him up off the floor. He squatted down low and extended his oven-mitt-clad hands as he attempted to back Pinky against a wall. Pinky hissed and lunged away from him. When Jim tried again unsuccessfully, I buzzed Marnie to assist me. We needed all hands—and mitts—on deck with this one.
“We both had gargoyle geckos as first pets,” Becky explained. “I guess you could say we’re natural lizard lovers.” She smiled adoringly in Jim’s direction.
Though gargoyle geckos and Nile monitors are both in the lizard family, they’re worlds apart. Gargoyle geckos are found on the island of New Caledonia, near Australia. Nile monitors are found in Africa. In disposition, they’re even further removed. Geckos are gentle little lizards that I recommend as first pets for small children because they’re low maintenance and easygoing. Nile monitors are not at all beginner reptiles. They can be obstinate and sometimes dangerous, and they’re almost always big. They really don’t belong in a traditional home unless the owners are very experienced reptile handlers. I imagined Jim and Becky at their local pet store, unknowingly selecting Pinky from a tank of young Nile monitors.
“They didn’t look this large in the pictures,” she said, making conversation.
I guessed that Becky was referring to the colorful booklet pet stores often provide with purchase, titled something like “Your Nile Monitor and You.” I’d seen my share of those free handouts—full of glossy color photographs but light on relevant information. “Your Nile Monitor and You” probably didn’t mention the room-sized enclosure Jim and Becky would need once Pinky reached his full size, which they would need to outfit with branches for him to climb, large rocks on which he could rub off shedding skin, a shallow pool for bathing, climate control, and UV light exposure for ten to twelve hours a day. This reptile was high maintenance.
Jim finally managed to grab Pinky firmly behind the neck and wrangle him into his arms. Becky cooed, “Our baby.”
Except that Pinky could no longer be held like a baby. Jim was struggling to keep the large animal from wriggling out of his grip. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and at his hairline. Pinky whipped his tail and jerked his head from side to side.
“Can you, um, grasp the middle?” he asked me desperately.
Together, Jim and I carried Pinky over to the examination table just as Marnie entered the room with a large blanket. I secured Pinky by covering him in the blanket and rolling him up like a fifty-pound burrito.
“He’s a live one,” Marnie said under her breath. “Reminds me of Tybalt.”
“Let’s hope for a different outcome,” I whispered back.
Tybalt, a seven-foot-long iguana, had become a legend at the hospital the day he wriggled out of my arms and vaulted off the X-ray table, and—snap!—two entire feet of his bright green tail fell right off. The broken half skittered to the floor and slid under the examination table.
“Grab his body!” I’d screamed at Marnie. “I’ll get the tail!”
In general, lizards should be handled gently and held under the body when picked up. They should never be picked up by their tails because, as we’d just experienced, the tail can break off. More accurately, their tails don’t really break; they detach from the body. Referred to as “tail autonomy,” it’s a common defense mechanism for many lizards. If they feel especially threatened, they will distract a predator by detaching their tail. The separated tail thrashes and wiggles about, increasing the lizard’s chances of escaping to safety. I’d seen geckos perform this trick time and again, but never an iguana the size of Tybalt. Whereas the smaller gecko’s tail grows back fairly quickly, I feared it would be years before Tybalt’s grew back, if at all, a
nd even then it would likely be an entirely different color from the rest of his body. I couldn’t help but think of one of Brett’s favorite childhood books, The Mixed-Up Chameleon by Eric Carle, in which a chameleon wishes to be like other animals in the zoo and ends up with the head of an elephant, the neck of a giraffe, and the tail of a fox. I could only guess what Tybalt might look like should his tail ever return.
“HE’S STARTING TO settle,” I said to Jim and Becky. “I’m going to remove the blanket now.” I readjusted my grip and carefully examined the areas of skin Pinky hadn’t shed yet. I noted that his skin was an orange-brown color, not the bright green it should have been. This color change could stem from a number of factors: inappropriate diet, the wrong environmental temperature, not enough UV light.
Whenever I examine an animal whose behavior or health status has changed abruptly, I ask its owners questions about any changes in the family, any recent moves or events that might have disrupted a regular routine. In veterinary school, students learn to look for the most obvious causes for a disorder before considering the more obscure possibilities. It’s called differential diagnosis—moving from one possible cause to another, taking into account all of the animal’s symptoms. The saying “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras” reminds us veterinarians not to discount the obvious when looking for the cause of a problem—although, as an exotic animal vet, I am inclined to think about zebras before horses.
“Has anything changed lately with his care?” I asked.
“He recently outgrew his tank,” Jim said, “so we converted the guest room.”
“Jim completely transformed it,” Becky said, beaming, “with peat moss and a bunch of plants from Lowe’s. He even bought one of those long metal tubs people plant tomatoes in. Pinky uses it as a bathtub.” I briefly imagined the guest room in my own house converted into a tropical wonderland. It sounded kind of magical, except—
“Except”—Jim sighed—“now that he’s out of his climate-controlled tank, we have to crank the central heating throughout the entire house to keep him warm enough. It’s like a sauna.”
Becky giggled again. “More like a hot yoga class.”
Just thinking about the heat seemed to elevate Jim’s body temperature. He wiped another bead of sweat from his upper lip.
When it comes to exotic pets—feathered, furry, or scaly—the temperature of their world is often critical, so providing the proper climate to help keep the animal healthy is paramount. Perhaps more than any other type of pet, reptiles have specific temperature needs and requirements. Most captive lizards require enclosures with a warm basking zone, often in the range of ninety to one hundred degrees. This often means adding supplemental heating elements such as heat bulbs and heating pads to enclosures when seasonal temperatures fall and removing them when they climb again. If Jim and Becky were turning up the household thermostat to match this level of heat, Pinky was probably comfortable, but they were likely roasting.
“And our heating bill is astronomical.”
Becky chimed in, “The heat we can get used to, but”—she looked over at Jim—“now that we no longer have a guest room, we’re not sure where to put my parents.”
“They’ll be visiting from Santa Fe for the holidays,” Jim explained.
“Well, then they’ll be used to the heat,” I joked. “Are your parents reptile lovers like you? New Mexico sure has its fair share of them.”
Becky and Jim exchanged looks of concern.
“Not really,” Becky said slowly. “They’re more like . . . cat people.”
“Ah,” I said, understanding. “They like animals that cuddle up on your lap?”
Becky nodded just as Pinky broke loose from the grip I had around his throat. I reached toward him, and he lunged at my hand—his way of warning me that he no longer wanted to be restrained, or probably held at all. “Well, if that’s the case,” I said, sizing up the frightened lizard, “then Pinky may come as a bit of a surprise. Have you considered putting them up in your nearest Comfort Inn?”
AFTER JIM AND Becky had left with Pinky and my general recommendation to give him a few more weeks to adjust to his new room, Marnie and I huddled in the hallway.
“How’s Luke today?” she asked.
“Quarantined. He officially has pinkeye.”
“Oh, no,” said Marnie, wincing in sympathy.
“Don’t feel too bad. He’s home from school today with the house to himself. He couldn’t be happier.”
Luke may be the younger of my two boys, but he’s definitely the more independent. He’s content to be alone and will figure things out in the absence of my or Peter’s help. I’d left him camped out in his room with his canaries Lennon and Ringo. I imagined that he was probably now playing online chess or practicing his piano undisturbed, aside from the occasional bird song. Luke has always had an ear for music. By his choice, he started to play the piano and take voice lessons at the age of five. For his eighth birthday he asked for a pet bird, so I got him a male canary since they sing so beautifully. Luke named him Lennon because he has a ring of feathers around his head that Luke insists look “just like the Beatles’ bangs.” A year later, he asked for a companion for his singing canary because, “Duh, Mom, Lennon needs a buddy.” So along came Ringo, who perfectly accompanies Lennon’s vocals and Luke’s piano chords.
“Still, you know how it goes—one person gets it, and the whole house goes down. My daughter caught it last winter, and it was only a matter of days until the boys had it, too.”
My neighbor Katherine had said nearly the same thing to me this morning when I walked Brett down the driveway to catch the bus. He’d asked me not to, but I’d insisted. “I just want two extra minutes with my oldest son, okay?”
Katherine was standing alongside Gilman, who acted equally embarrassed to have a mom escort. The boys greeted each other, mumbling, “Hey, man,” and quickly followed each other onto the bus.
As Katherine and I walked back toward our homes, she said with artificial concern, “How is Luke? Is he staying home today with pinkeye?”
How did she know Luke had pinkeye?
“Gilman told me that Peter picked him up from school yesterday. Conjunctivitis is so highly contagious, as I’m sure you know since you’re a doctor. I was relieved to hear that your husband was right there to bring him home.”
“That’s Peter,” I said, attempting to smile. “The dependable one.”
I returned my attention to Marnie. “I’ll bring home a box of latex ‘kid’ gloves to keep the germs at bay.” I nodded toward the ICU. “One sick ward is enough.”
Just then the front doors to the hospital swung open, bringing in a rush of cold air. A woman in dark sunglasses and a belted winter trench coat charged in.
“Who’s that?” muttered Marnie.
I took a guess. “Jeanne, Bob’s wife.”
The woman took off her glasses to reveal seemingly permanently arched eyebrows. She was striking in a beautiful but hardened way. Her eyes scanned the waiting room, and when she spotted me at the far end, she demanded, “Where is he?”
By “he,” I assumed she was speaking about Bob.
“He just left,” I said calmly, keeping my voice neutral.
She’d missed him by less than an hour. Bob had been my first client of the day before Jim and Becky. He was here right at nine, as had become his new morning routine, appearing with hot coffee for Marnie and me soon after we opened.
“My way of thanking you for all the extra care you’re giving my girls,” he said apologetically.
If anyone should apologize, I thought, it’s me. I wished Mathilda and Lily were responding to our treatments and showing signs of improvement, but neither of Bob’s gliders, especially Mathilda, was improving. Her young and fragile organs were losing their functionality. We were continuing to pump fluids under her skin to keep her hydrated, but she had stopped producing urine and was dangerously dehydrated. Ideally, we’d have placed an intravenous catheter
in her leg to deliver fluids directly into her veins, as we do with many exotic pets, but her veins were just too tiny to thread a catheter into. There wasn’t much more we could do.
“I think it’s time we move Mathilda to an isolation ward,” I said regretfully.
“Move her?” Bob said distressed. “Why can’t they stay together?”
“I’d love to keep them together, but to prevent further spread of illness, I really need to separate them. This will give Lily a greater chance of survival.”
“And what about Mathilda? Will she—survive?”
I held back. There was no doubt in my mind she was dying, and she was likely in pain. At this point, I’d normally suggest euthanizing the animal. But sometimes doing what’s most humane for the pet is the most difficult decision for the owner to make. I looked into Bob’s sad eyes and realized that I, too, was hoping beyond reason that Mathilda would miraculously revive or that I’d finally find a way to save her before I lost her too.
Jeanne was positioned in the middle of the waiting room with her hands on her hips and her black pumps bolted to the ground. “I know they’re sick, Doctor. Of course, Bob tells me that it’s ‘nothing to worry about,’” she said sarcastically, making air quotes. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Just show me where they are,” she said impatiently.
I hesitated and considered that Bob was my client, not Jeanne. I didn’t have to answer to her. My responsibility was to his pets, Lily and Mathilda. Yet I couldn’t really throw his wife out in the cold. As much as I didn’t want to, I walked Jeanne back into the isolation ward. She gazed indifferently down at Mathilda.
“Why isn’t she moving?”
“We’re treating her for potential sepsis and hyporvolemia.”
