by Laurie Hess
Probably in his early seventies, Carl was twice as energetic as I. He ran marathons, swam laps daily, and traveled extensively. I envied his stamina and also his impeccable style. I couldn’t remember a hospital visit when Carl had not appeared in a neat shirt and freshly polished shoes. He had once shared with me the story of buying Molly an engagement ring nearly a dozen years after they were married. He’d found the ring in a roadside antique shop he’d stumbled upon while driving along the North Shore of Massachusetts. The diamond ring was in a box of tarnished and “junky-looking” jewelry, he’d said. He’d bought it on a whim and was surprised to discover, once he’d had it cleaned and appraised by a dealer in New York City’s diamond district, that the stone was nearly flawless and worth a great deal. Carl finally proposed “properly” to Molly at a French bistro in Chelsea.
It had been nearly a year since I’d seen either Carl or Molly. I knew that they’d moved from Manhattan to South Jersey, and I’d often wondered how they were doing, so I was happy when I saw that Bandit was scheduled for a routine checkup.
I was already in the examination room when Marnie led Molly and Bandit in and closed the door. I was surprised to see Molly without Carl and concerned that she looked especially worn. She held Bandit in the crook of her arm, and he looked around curiously. I wondered why she’d made the three-hour drive from southern New Jersey on icy roads instead of Carl.
“It’s so nice to see you.” I reached out and lightly squeezed her arm and stroked Bandit’s dark fur. “It’s usually your husband who brings in Bandit. Where is Carl today?”
Molly sat down with Bandit and burst into tears.
“Molly?”
“He’s gone,” she whispered.
“Gone?” I was confused. Gone where? I wasn’t certain what she meant.
“Carl had a massive heart attack.”
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “When?”
“Six months ago.” She choked and put Bandit down on the ground. The playful animal darted under the examination table and began sniffing around, looking for a tight space to squeeze his lanky body into, as ferrets love to do. “I’m so sorry. I was going to call you, but I just couldn’t do it.”
I knelt down in front of Molly. I took particular notice of the engagement ring that Carl had been so proud of. It really was stunning, an emerald-cut solitaire set in yellow gold. “I understand. You don’t have to apologize.”
“There are just so many memories here of Carl, you know?” Her lips turned up in a sad smile as she watched Bandit attempt to climb up the slippery metal legs of the examination table. He’d make it about halfway up before he slid down again. “He loved this little rascal so much,” she mused. “Bandit was always stealing Carl’s shoes and hiding them around the house. Carl would just laugh it off and chase him up and down the stairs, through the living room, and out the back door.” Molly paused as she held back more tears. “I’d scold him for playing too rough. ‘You’re going to break your neck,’ I’d say, and he’d just wave me off and he and Bandit would carry on. Said Bandit kept him young.”
“Or the other way around,” I said, smiling. “Carl was such a vibrant man.”
Molly swallowed hard. “He was.”
I thought of Peter, of how much he meant to me and how devastating it must be to lose your lifelong partner.
“We never had children,” she said after several moments. “We had each other. That was enough for us. And then, of course”—she smiled—“we had our ferrets.”
“Just as much work as children,” I smiled back.
“Carl wouldn’t have had it any other way. Bandit’s our last ferret, and he was Carl’s best pal.”
I picked up Bandit as he scurried by and handed him back to Molly.
“Come here, you,” she said and rubbed her thumb against Bandit’s head. The loving ferret leaned his head into the caress, and I could see that Bandit was equally bonded with Molly. Her grief was etched around her eyes. “I can hardly get through the days without my husband, Dr. Hess. But at least I still have Bandit. Carl didn’t leave me alone.”
WHEN I FINISHED my story, I reached out and placed my hand on Peter’s back. I could only just see the outline of my wedding rings in the darkness.
“I will never again leave you sitting at a table alone,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry that I did.”
Peter inhaled and slowly rolled over. “Laurie,” he sighed.
“You were absolutely right to get mad at me,” I blurted out. “I know I’ve been doing a horrible job at balancing everything, you and the boys especially. I’m not going to make any excuses.”
Peter turned on his side and faced me. “I don’t want to be upset with you.” His eyes softened. “I just want a night out with my wife, okay?”
I smiled with teary relief and nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you happen to know when she might be available?”
“I’ll check her schedule first thing in the morning.” I leaned over and hugged him. Dale who’d been silent in his sleeping cage, suddenly stirred and burst out, “IT’S A PARTY, IT’S A PARTY.”
You can teach parrots to say just about anything, and if you’re not careful, they will often learn things you don’t want them to. Dale’s declaring “It’s a party” was an improvement from past comments. When Brett was a colicky baby, I’d spend hours late at night and early in the morning trying to nurse him to sleep. It always seemed that once I’d finally gotten him to settle down and put him in his crib, Dale would burst out screeching. Peter would jump up out of bed and shout back at him, “Shut up, dummy!”
I tried to explain to Peter that yelling at Dale would only encourage him to screech more. Yelling at a bird for making undesirable noise simply reinforces the behavior by rewarding him with attention each time he does so, which is what happened in our house: Dale would screech, Peter would yell, and Dale would screech louder. And then, Dale began to yell back at Peter, “Shut up, dummy.” The heated exchanges went on until we changed our strategy and began to ignore Dale when he made noise and reward him when he was quiet. When he wasn’t screeching and waking up the baby, we’d give him treats, verbal praise, a head pat, or a favorite toy. It took a few months, but as we continued to praise Dale for keeping his beak shut, he yelled less, and finally everyone was able to get some sleep.
I TOOK ANOTHER sip of coffee and turned down the car heater. I can do this, I thought. I can balance my career, my health, my kids, and my marriage. It’s all about knowing how to manage everyone’s needs—who needs what when and how to give it to them. I counsel pet owners on how to do this every day. It’s a delicate, ever-changing balance but an essential one if you are going to have pets. I recollected one such instance that had begun with a frantic early-morning phone call from Miriam Betts.
“Doctor,” she said with urgency, “I think he’s exploded!”
“Slow down,” I said. “Who’s exploded?”
“Harry, my husband’s rat.”
“Is your husband available to bring him in?”
“He’s out of the country on business,” she said with contempt, indicating that her husband was the bigger rat.
“Hmmm,” I said. A rat—exploded? That would be a first for me, although the veterinarian practice is full of surprises. “Can you tell me exactly what you see?”
“I walked in just now to change his food and water, and there’s this mess everywhere.”
“And you’re not sure what it is?”
“It’s disgusting,” Miriam said as if she were standing in it now. “Pink and slimy.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Put on a pair of dishwashing gloves and pack the cage into the car. Meet me at the hospital. Can you do that?” I asked.
Twenty minutes later, Miriam dropped the cage onto the examination table and shuddered, “Yuck.”
One look into Harry’s cage, and the “explosion” started to make some sense. First of all, Harry wasn’t actually a rat but an exceptionally hefty house mou
se. A cute one, too, I thought, with a snowy white belly and a cinnamon-speckled face. Also, Harry had just given birth to a healthy litter of baby mice.
Twenty-two, to be exact.
I smiled. “Congratulations are in order. Harry didn’t explode; he just had babies.”
Miriam furrowed her brow and tentatively leaned into the cage. “Those are babies?”
Relaxing in a bed of sawdust with her eyes closed, the house mouse looked quite cozy and content with her litter of peanut-sized pups affectionately nuzzling her.
“Yes, and maybe you should consider changing Harry’s name to Harriet.”
Miriam didn’t seem to find my suggestion amusing or helpful. She looked back into the cage with the same severe expression she’d worn since she had arrived. She studied the heap of newborns.
I opened the cage and carefully rolled one into my hand. “We call them ‘pinkies’ because they’re hairless and pink at birth. And they’re actually not slimy, just a little wet from coming out of Mama’s belly.”
Miriam grimaced. “Where are their ears?”
“Baby mice are born blind and deaf, which is why their ears are stuck to the sides of their heads. It doesn’t look like they have any, but see,” I said pointing to a thin, pink fold of skin on the side of the newborn’s head. “That’s an ear. Their eyes kind of look like they’re sealed shut too.”
“Well, those don’t look like mice to me,” Miriam said and backed away.
“They do look kind of alien, I agree, but that will all change in a couple of days. They’ll begin to grow hair, and within a month they’ll look like little versions of their mama.” I smiled. “It’s really quite fascinating to watch.”
“Fascinating?” Miriam turned sharply toward me. “My husband’s out of the country, Dr. Hess. I cannot take care of twenty-two babies.”
“I understand it may seem like a lot,” I reassured her, “but you really won’t have to do much.”
“No!” She raised her voice. “You’re not hearing me—twenty-two babies are too much!”
Miriam was shouting at me, so I definitely heard her. I could empathize, too: for her, twenty-two baby mice were twenty-two more than she could bear. I got it; we all have our tipping point. Still, I wasn’t about to take in her new family of mice.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s figure this out. When will your husband be home?”
“Not for another six days,” she said, nostrils flaring.
“These first days are important,” I said calmly, “but they’re manageable. As long as Harriet does her job attending to and feeding her babies, you really won’t have to intervene.”
“And what if she doesn’t do her job?”
“Then call me.” I decided not to share with Miriam that if Harriet did ignore her twenty-two babies, they would need to be fed commercially available formula for baby rodents through a dropper every two hours and provided with a small warm box heated to about eighty degrees Fahrenheit; they would also need to have their bellies gently rubbed with a Q-tip after feeding to stimulate digestion. I knew that detailed list of instructions would likely send Miriam over the edge, so I said, “Let’s assume for now that everything will go fine. And then after your husband returns home we can help you find new homes for all of these baby mice.”
“He’ll be looking for a new home too,” Miriam muttered.
“You can do this,” I said. “Take a deep breath. It will be okay.” And I inhaled deeply myself. Miriam grudgingly followed my lead.
9:20 A.M., ANIMAL HOSPITAL
I ARRIVED IN the hospital parking lot and glanced around for Bob’s truck. I didn’t see it as I usually did. I thought back to Jeanne’s visit yesterday. “We cannot afford to keep these animals alive,” she’d said. I wondered if Bob’s absence this morning had anything to do with her icy threat.
I opened the hospital doors to what sounded like a bird sanctuary. A screech owl was letting out deafening shrieks, and Target was chanting, “CHICKEN, CHICKEN, I’M A CHICKEN.”
“CHICKEN, CHICKEN, I’M A CHICKEN,” imitated Stop.
Target and Stop had been playing this repetitive game ad nauseam ever since I had treated Mr. Larsen’s hens for reproductive problems more than a month ago. I was half expecting them to begin clucking any day now.
Colette took a deep, measured breath, stood up from behind the reception desk, and glared at Target and Stop. Standing nearly six feet tall, she could loom over the desk like an elementary school teacher and command silence with just a look.
Not unexpectedly, a hush fell over the waiting room as Target and Stop took her cue and quieted in their cage.
“Good morning,” I whispered as I approached her desk. “Has Bob called?”
“No,” she whispered back, “but Hannah just did. She’s just admitted a sick glider to her clinic.”
“Oh, no. Not another one.”
“And,” Colette continued, “a group from Long Island’s local animal rights chapter picketed her hospital this morning.”
“Okay, this is getting out of control.”
As I was processing both pieces of bad news, Marnie appeared with another. She put her hands on her hips and gave me an admonishing look. “You were very busy last night, weren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that the Vets Connect message board this morning is having a field day with you, and outraged pet owners on sites like GliderGab are posting things like ‘Local Vet Denies Inhumane Practices.’”
I groaned. “Why do they keep using that word?” I rubbed my eyes.
“You look terrible,” Marnie said. “Are you getting sick?”
“I’m just tired,” I mumbled and thought back to my late-night activities online. I had been busy. After coming home from the hospital and peeking in on Brett and Luke, both stretched out sideways with their feet dangling off their beds, I’d retreated to my home office to make my own countercharge to Dr. Barnes’s claim that Sugar Buddies was mistreating its animals and that its operation was circus-like and inhumane. I felt compelled to refute Dr. Barnes and also to stand up, once again, for Simon, who I still believed had the animals’ health and safety in mind. What had Simon said to me? “Our company was founded on the idea of making sure these animals are adopted out in an ethically responsible way.” But Simon had been firm that he wasn’t going to speak to the press, so given my natural ability to run my mouth, I did.
I created several versions of the following statement and posted it on Vets Connect, on my hospital’s Facebook page, and on a few public message boards for owners of exotic pets:
I appreciate people’s concerns that Sugar Buddies’ adoption procedures are certainly different from more traditional methods and that adopting pets out of mall kiosks seems like an impersonal way to find these animals homes, but to call their practices inhumane, I think, is an exaggeration.
I’ve spoken at length with Sugar Buddies’ chief breeder, and my understanding is that their operation is in fact humane—their shipping practices are clean and safe, and once the animals are in the malls, the company can retain tight control over their care until they’re adopted. In fact, by selling directly through their mall kiosks, the company can effectively find loving families for hundreds of animals that need new homes.
Of course I’m concerned that sugar gliders are becoming sick and dying, but I haven’t been able to attribute how Sugar Buddies are raising, treating, or selling their animals to the unfortunate deaths. My staff and I are doing everything we can at the animal hospital to treat every sick glider that comes through our doors, and we will continue to work with other veterinarians to help determine the source of the illness.
I looked back at Marnie who was now tilting her head with concern. “Laurie, are you sure you want to continue to defend these guys?”
“Until I have a solid reason not to.”
“Hannah just admitted another one of their gliders. How much more reason do you need?”
I wearily slogg
ed back toward my office wondering if maybe Marnie was right. Maybe I should ease up on my public discourse and my defense of Simon. Perhaps I’d spoken too fervently on his behalf. I’d now publicly aligned myself with a company that had more than a few questions to answer. Meanwhile, Lily and Mathilda weren’t getting any better, and more gliders were becoming sick.
I found Elliot in my office, huddled over the keyboard, scrolling through my inbox, which I’d asked him to do. “Flag anything that may be a lead.”
He startled when he heard me and swiveled around in his chair.
“Morning,” he said while making an awkward attempt to block the computer screen.
“Let me guess—I’ve offended a few more people?”
Elliot scratched his head. “Um,” he stalled.
“Wow, that many? What do they have to say?”
“Doctor, some of these comments are kind of”—he continued to waver—“harsh. And there have been phone calls too.”
“Go ahead. I can take it.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned around in his chair, and I took a seat beside him. “This one is from a shopper petitioning Sugar Buddies to stop selling sugar gliders throughout the region. She says, “These animals require more time to care for than the company lets on, and that’s why they’re getting sick.”
I addressed the computer screen as if I were responding to the writer in person. “Like most any animal, without proper care and nutrition or attention to their special needs, sugar gliders are at risk of getting sick. And”—I held up a finger to emphasize my next point—“understanding an animal’s needs is ultimately the responsibility of the owner. What’s next?” I said to Elliot.
“This woman says sugar gliders aren’t meant to be domesticated and live in captivity. She says sugar gliders can’t thrive behind bars.”
