That (Other) Time I Took A Hamster To The Vet
A long time ago, when I was about nine or ten years old, I had a gigantic hamster named Caramel. He'd been a class pet, but we bonded so I got to take him home. Much like Jack, he had one eye - the other was some kinda messed-up raisiny looking thing. My mother worried about that, so we put him in a little container and took him to the vet we took the dogs and cats to: a Southern Good Ol' Boy about half a year away from retirement, who had never in his life had a hamster cross his threshold. The man could not have been at any more of a loss if I'd brought him a baby chupacabra. (My mom laughed all the way home, and for weeks after.)
Things haven't changed much in twenty years.
I took little hamster Jack to the vet today -- he's had some kind of drinking/peeing issue and it didn't clear up on its own, so I figured an exam and a round of antibiotics was in order. I did the research online, narrowed down what was likely to be wrong, and figured I could have treated it myself, if I could get hold of the antibiotic, which I couldn't. (Turns out I was spot on - the vet had the same ideas as me and prescribed the same thing. Damn I'm good.)
It took calling ALL OVER THIS DAMN CITY before I found a place that would even see hamsters, and most of them were just baffled by me asking -- hamsters? No, why would we treat a hamster? Because it's a pet, people. They may be small and relatively cheap (well, the hams themselves, once you get into toys and cages, good lord, there goes all your money) but they are not disposable. Which, you all know, is how I wound up with him in the first place.
I settled on a place about 20 miles away, secured Jack's carrier in the car, and set off. Got there no problem, I knew the area, and I only drove into one wrong parking lot in this giant strip-mall complex before I got where I needed to be. (My sense of direction generally... isn't.) The vet is the kind inside a pet store, so I can go shopping (me to pet stores = stereotypes of women in shoe stores) after. Jack, by the way, slept the whole way there. He's a trooper.
In I walk, with my grown-uppiest clothes (meaning: a shirt that is not a t-shirt with cartoons on the front), and my nice new Adult Purse over my shoulder, and my appointment and everything, and Jack's little blue carrier in my hand. I am feeling very proud of myself, like I'm about to win an award for being a responsible grown-up pet owner.
"Hi!" says a guy at the register. "Whatcha got there?"
"A ... hamster?" And blam, I'm nine years old again, staring up at good old Doctor Avery who is very fond of cats and very much wants someone to explain just what on earth he is supposed to do with this nice little girl's hamster. "I'm just here to.. see the vet... which is over there... where I'm gonna go."
There goes my award.
When you're at the vet, everyone else wants to see what kind of animal you've got. Riley loves this. Jack could care less, because he could care less about everything that is not Food and Sleep, but that didn't stop people from peering interestedly at my little blue carrier and asking what - or who - was inside. Somehow the place was swarming with nine year old girls, who at that point I really could relate to (and, for the record, am not much taller than, either) who, upon learning it was A HAMSTER OMG, would gasp and then make noises that only dogs could hear. Which was sweet. It didn't wake Jack up, so he didn't care.
"His name is Jack," I told them, "like the pirate." Actually it's like the playing card, or the Brando movie, but you explain that to someone else's kid. They universally declared Jack to be soooo cuuuute despite him at that point being a snoozing lump of testicles with a little brown furry body attached. Way to go, bug, show the kids your goods. There's a name for that, mister.
I waited at the counter, then was led into exam room two, oops, make that exam room one, and the table was sprayed down, and I set Jack's carrier on it, and we waited a bit. A vet tech came in, took his medical history (such as it is: one lost eye before the age of 4 months, healthy until recently with all this peeing), we opened up the carrier and poked at Jack, who nosed around inquisitively and was, again, proclaimed so cute. He and his carrier were taken into the back for weighing, then returned, and we waited a bit.
Then the Small Animal Vet came in: a tallish man with an outstandingly bushy mustache and very big hands. We shook hands, I told the story of Jack's eye and how I got him, and it was time for a physical examination. This is the roughest handling little Jack-a-mo had got since I've had him. The guy picked Jack up and stretched him about like silly putty, in an expert way. Jack bore it stoically, trying to wriggle free, but not biting or squealing or defensively peeing or popping free like a bar of soap and performing a suicide dive onto a floor four feet away, or any of the other horrible things that rodents may do when there are two thumbs the size of their skull pressing on their bladder.
"I don't feel anything in there that shouldn't be," said Dr. Thumbs. "So that's good. I'd like to get a urine sample, we just need a drop, sometimes if you squeeze their bladder it'll make them drip a bit."
"Just make sure he keeps that other eye," I said.
Jack, sphincters firmly clenched, twisted about in all his loose skin and glared myopically and monocularly in my general direction: You far-away-smelling traitor.
Eventually Dr. Thumbs gave up and set Jack down on the table, and we talked options. I asked if I could get some of those diabetes urine-test strips at the drugstore, was told that's an excellent idea, and Dr Thumbs wrote down precisely what I'd need on a little stickynote. We got a prescription for Baytril, to rule out any kind of internal infection; if that fails, I'm to get the test strips and do a urine test to check for glucose. If that comes out clean and he's still drinking like a fish, as Dr. Thumbs put it, "I'd just let it happen. I mean, if it is his kidneys, there's really nothing you can do, and restricting water would be the worst thing to do about that." In the meantime I am to keep track of his weight, make sure it doesn't go up or down dramatically. We shook hands again and he left.
The vet tech came back in a bit later, explaining how to give the medicine to Jack (which as of writing this DID NOT WORK AT ALL, you little devil, I have to call them tomorrow) and I told her the story of how I got him, while he explored the exam table, nibbled at a business card ("Oh, he recognizes our dog," I said - it had a Boxer on it) and tried to climb over a computer keyboard. That's when he got stuffed back in the carrier, unhappily, because he was very awake after all this unpleasant business.
No matter: he dropped off before we even got back to the car, and slept all the way home. I totted up the bill, more people investigated him, I picked up some fresh food and bedding, and we headed on home.
When we got home, he seemed surprised to see his cage again, and spent all of five minutes poking around every Jack-smelling corner before burrowing into his hideaway and going straight to sleep. It had been a long day, with lots of squishing.
Things haven't changed much in twenty years.
I took little hamster Jack to the vet today -- he's had some kind of drinking/peeing issue and it didn't clear up on its own, so I figured an exam and a round of antibiotics was in order. I did the research online, narrowed down what was likely to be wrong, and figured I could have treated it myself, if I could get hold of the antibiotic, which I couldn't. (Turns out I was spot on - the vet had the same ideas as me and prescribed the same thing. Damn I'm good.)
It took calling ALL OVER THIS DAMN CITY before I found a place that would even see hamsters, and most of them were just baffled by me asking -- hamsters? No, why would we treat a hamster? Because it's a pet, people. They may be small and relatively cheap (well, the hams themselves, once you get into toys and cages, good lord, there goes all your money) but they are not disposable. Which, you all know, is how I wound up with him in the first place.
I settled on a place about 20 miles away, secured Jack's carrier in the car, and set off. Got there no problem, I knew the area, and I only drove into one wrong parking lot in this giant strip-mall complex before I got where I needed to be. (My sense of direction generally... isn't.) The vet is the kind inside a pet store, so I can go shopping (me to pet stores = stereotypes of women in shoe stores) after. Jack, by the way, slept the whole way there. He's a trooper.
In I walk, with my grown-uppiest clothes (meaning: a shirt that is not a t-shirt with cartoons on the front), and my nice new Adult Purse over my shoulder, and my appointment and everything, and Jack's little blue carrier in my hand. I am feeling very proud of myself, like I'm about to win an award for being a responsible grown-up pet owner.
"Hi!" says a guy at the register. "Whatcha got there?"
"A ... hamster?" And blam, I'm nine years old again, staring up at good old Doctor Avery who is very fond of cats and very much wants someone to explain just what on earth he is supposed to do with this nice little girl's hamster. "I'm just here to.. see the vet... which is over there... where I'm gonna go."
There goes my award.
When you're at the vet, everyone else wants to see what kind of animal you've got. Riley loves this. Jack could care less, because he could care less about everything that is not Food and Sleep, but that didn't stop people from peering interestedly at my little blue carrier and asking what - or who - was inside. Somehow the place was swarming with nine year old girls, who at that point I really could relate to (and, for the record, am not much taller than, either) who, upon learning it was A HAMSTER OMG, would gasp and then make noises that only dogs could hear. Which was sweet. It didn't wake Jack up, so he didn't care.
"His name is Jack," I told them, "like the pirate." Actually it's like the playing card, or the Brando movie, but you explain that to someone else's kid. They universally declared Jack to be soooo cuuuute despite him at that point being a snoozing lump of testicles with a little brown furry body attached. Way to go, bug, show the kids your goods. There's a name for that, mister.
I waited at the counter, then was led into exam room two, oops, make that exam room one, and the table was sprayed down, and I set Jack's carrier on it, and we waited a bit. A vet tech came in, took his medical history (such as it is: one lost eye before the age of 4 months, healthy until recently with all this peeing), we opened up the carrier and poked at Jack, who nosed around inquisitively and was, again, proclaimed so cute. He and his carrier were taken into the back for weighing, then returned, and we waited a bit.
Then the Small Animal Vet came in: a tallish man with an outstandingly bushy mustache and very big hands. We shook hands, I told the story of Jack's eye and how I got him, and it was time for a physical examination. This is the roughest handling little Jack-a-mo had got since I've had him. The guy picked Jack up and stretched him about like silly putty, in an expert way. Jack bore it stoically, trying to wriggle free, but not biting or squealing or defensively peeing or popping free like a bar of soap and performing a suicide dive onto a floor four feet away, or any of the other horrible things that rodents may do when there are two thumbs the size of their skull pressing on their bladder.
"I don't feel anything in there that shouldn't be," said Dr. Thumbs. "So that's good. I'd like to get a urine sample, we just need a drop, sometimes if you squeeze their bladder it'll make them drip a bit."
"Just make sure he keeps that other eye," I said.
Jack, sphincters firmly clenched, twisted about in all his loose skin and glared myopically and monocularly in my general direction: You far-away-smelling traitor.
Eventually Dr. Thumbs gave up and set Jack down on the table, and we talked options. I asked if I could get some of those diabetes urine-test strips at the drugstore, was told that's an excellent idea, and Dr Thumbs wrote down precisely what I'd need on a little stickynote. We got a prescription for Baytril, to rule out any kind of internal infection; if that fails, I'm to get the test strips and do a urine test to check for glucose. If that comes out clean and he's still drinking like a fish, as Dr. Thumbs put it, "I'd just let it happen. I mean, if it is his kidneys, there's really nothing you can do, and restricting water would be the worst thing to do about that." In the meantime I am to keep track of his weight, make sure it doesn't go up or down dramatically. We shook hands again and he left.
The vet tech came back in a bit later, explaining how to give the medicine to Jack (which as of writing this DID NOT WORK AT ALL, you little devil, I have to call them tomorrow) and I told her the story of how I got him, while he explored the exam table, nibbled at a business card ("Oh, he recognizes our dog," I said - it had a Boxer on it) and tried to climb over a computer keyboard. That's when he got stuffed back in the carrier, unhappily, because he was very awake after all this unpleasant business.
No matter: he dropped off before we even got back to the car, and slept all the way home. I totted up the bill, more people investigated him, I picked up some fresh food and bedding, and we headed on home.
When we got home, he seemed surprised to see his cage again, and spent all of five minutes poking around every Jack-smelling corner before burrowing into his hideaway and going straight to sleep. It had been a long day, with lots of squishing.