by Gillian Hick
* * *
It was the early hours of the morning before my disturbed dreams were interrupted by a loud banging noise and a heavy thump. In a panic, my first though was that Molly had fallen out of her cot and I leapt out, forgetting all about our house guest. When I raced into Molly’s room, there she lay, sleeping peacefully, covers thrown to one side but still clutching the furry cow that joined her each night. With a start, I remembered about the snake and looked down warily at my bare feet.
I walked cautiously through the rooms to try to find out what had made the noise. When I reached the sitting-room, I saw that a pile of books and assorted junk had fallen out of the large press which was home to any odds and ends that didn’t fit anywhere else in the house. I had ransacked it earlier, looking for the heaviest possible books to put on top of Sidney’s vivarium. With a sigh of relief, I started to stuff the collection back into the press.
In the silence of that hour of the morning, it was unmistakable – a loud hissing noise came from the back of the press. With a scream which might well have been audible in Ballyfermot, some forty miles away, I woke the household. In an instant, Slug and the other four dogs charged in, ready and able to defend me against anything. They were followed closely by Donal, just as Molly’s bewildered wails broke out over the general confusion.
‘The snake is in the press,’ I yelled hysterically at Donal. ‘He’s hissing at me.’ I stopped short as my eyes fell on the vivarium where Sidney was clearly visible through the glass, sleeping peacefully, neatly coiled and oblivious to the pandemonium he was creating.
‘But he was, he was hissing at me in the press when I pushed the books back in,’ I told Donal, relieved and yet confused as to what had happened.
And even though we could still see Sidney, as calm grew there was a hissing noise.
‘Have a look,’ I urged Donal. ‘I’ll go and get Molly.’
By the time I got back with Molly in my arms, sobs now reduced to a sleepy snuffle, Donal was laughing, a can of air freshener in his hand which I vaguely remembered from three or four years back when we were trying to sell our old house and get rid of the dog smell. It seemed that the can had been lying in the press with the lid off and when I had pushed the books in, the spray nozzle had jammed and hence the hissing noise.
My laughter was as much nervous relief as general amusement over the whole situation. I have to admit that I’ve never been too fond of aerosols since.
A few hours later, I got out my phone book and started ringing the four or five contacts I had who had an interest in reptiles, eager to pass on Sidney before the serious work had to be done. Reptile fanciers in general tend to be passionate about their hobby, so I was quite sure that one of them would be happy to take him on in his current condition. And most of them were far more knowledgeable than I would ever be in relation to the creatures. But luck was not on my side. I was on my last hope, but Dieter, a German living in North Dublin, although keen, was going away for a week that very morning. If I could keep Sidney until his return …? I had no choice. Seven long days before I could hand him over – if he lasted that long.
Clearly, the previous night’s exertions had taken their toll on Sidney. That morning he appeared quite lifeless, coiled neatly around a log I had left for him in the vivarium. I checked both the temperature and humidity and satisfied myself that both were suitable and started reading up my reptile book.
Apart from his obvious ill-health, the only other clinical signs were the telltale bubbles that appeared over his nostril at regular intervals. This was indicative of some form of respiratory infection, but whether this was secondary to his ill health or the initiating factor, I didn’t know.
What he needed was a daily injection of antibiotics, regular bathing in tepid water and worst of all, stomach tubing, to force some essential nutrients into the reluctant feeder. All of this I had done before, but usually at a clinic where the owner was able to hold the snake while I performed the tasks with carefully gloved hands.
Molly was clearly enthralled with the newcomer when she saw him first.
‘Nicey snakey,’ she cooed at him. ‘Monny hold him?’ she questioned, inquisitive eyes looking up at me.
‘No, no! Don’t touch!’ I replied, a little too abruptly. ‘He’s too sick,’ I added. ‘But he is a very nice snake,’ I assured her, not wanting to pass on my phobia.
In order to calculate the correct dose of the medications, Sidney had to weighed. Although I could quite accurately estimate the weight of a cat or a dog by picking them up, I had not handled enough snakes to even begin to estimate his weight. I had to get him back into his pillowcase – last night, it had seemed relatively easy to tip him out of the pillowcase into the carefully prepared vivarium, but now, how I wished I had left him where he was. Pulling on my gloves, I braced myself, reached down and cautiously touched the smooth body. The warmth always took me by surprise. The problem was that his head was tucked down in the middle of the coil so I couldn’t get hold of it. Trying to make things easier, I decided that maybe I would be able to slip the pillowcase under him and scoop him into it without any major handling. Slowly, gradually, I eased the frayed edge in under the coil, but when I was almost half way there, the head suddenly shot up as though he was only now realising the unwelcome intrusion. I dropped the pillowcase and jumped up, almost knocking Molly over as she stood close by, delighted with the morning’s entertainment.
Obviously weakened by his prolonged illness, Sidney’s head drooped again. Taking a deep breath and quelling the waves of nausea that were threatening to overcome me, I managed to grasp him just behind the head – firmly, but gently enough not to damage the delicate bones in the area. I shuddered as he squirmed in my hands, but kept my hold, more afraid now of letting him go. With one eye firmly fixed on him, I reached over for the pillowcase and gradually drew him up high enough to drop his tail end into it. Once his bulk was safely contained, I let go of his head, withdrew my hand and held my breath for a few moments until all was still. Keeping a firm hold on the top, I sat him up on the weighing scales and at last, the first task was completed.
Dropping pillowcase and all back into the vivarium, I was able to calculate and draw up the correct dose of antibiotic in the tiny insulin syringe. I contemplated injecting him through the bag but figured it would be better to know where the head was. I rolled back the edges until he was sitting on top of it, and, grasping the head, edged the needle in under the skin between two scales. With almost a sense of sympathy, I noticed how thin and gaunt he was, but was relieved that in his weakened state he didn’t even seem to notice my ministrations.
The next task was the bath. With Sidney safely contained in his pillowcase, I went in search of a suitable container. Search as I did, though, I failed to come up with anything suitable for a four-and-a-half-foot constrictor to have a bath in. There was nothing for it – our own bath it would have to be.
Molly clapped her hands when she saw me running a mix of hot and cold water into the bath and immediately started pulling off her fleecy jumper.
‘Monny bath! Monny bath!’ she cried, in obvious glee at the unexpected morning treat.
‘No, Molly. The bath is for the snake.’
She looked at me incredulously and I couldn’t but agree with her – maybe I was losing it.
With ten centimetres of tepid water gently swirling around the bath, I slowly lowered the snake. It wasn’t until he sank down to the bottom that I began to wonder if he would know to hold his head up over the water level or not. I counted to five as he lay motionless below the surface, thin trails of bubbles blowing out of his nostrils. There was nothing for it but reach down and grasp the head.
So there I knelt, crouching over the bath, firmly holding Sidney’s head at arm’s length and watching, with a mix of horror and fascination, as the long body gradually relaxed and uncoiled and lazily flicked from side to side, creating little whirlpools in the water.
Of course, the phone had to ring.
Sounding slightly incredulous, he began to enquire as to why I was bathing a snake. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Molly, who had been strangely quiet up to now, heaving a large bottle of bubble bath up onto the edge of the bath.
‘Snakey like bubbles. Pink bubbles!’ she declared as she started to tip the contents into the bath water.
‘No, Molly!’ I shouted and I reached out to grab it from her while still holding onto Sidney. I watched in horror as the phone slipped out of my hands, skidded along the edge of the bath tub and with a resounding plop, fell into the water.
I didn’t even begin to wonder what the bank manager would think – but at least he couldn’t ring me back, I thought wistfully, as I watched my phone glide carelessly up and down along the base of the bath from the current created by Sidney’s body.
‘Okay. That will have to do you,’ I told Sydney after what seemed a lot longer than fifteen minutes.
All that was left to do now was to stomach tube him with the mix of concentrate feed and supplements, specifically designed for ailing reptiles. I was well familiar with the scenario of having the snake restrained by the owner, with the first half metre or so, depending on the size, dangling down vertically, to allow me to slip the carefully measured tube over the back of the mouth and down into the stomach. Today, with no loving owner to console him, Sidney was in no mood to cooperate. Clearly in a huff at being hauled out of the warm bath, he was now coiled tightly in a roll with only the head that I was still holding, sticking out.
Obstinately, he refused to open his mouth, which I gently probed with the well lubricated tip of a stomach tube.
There was nothing for it but to lower him back into the bath to see if he would uncoil. It took three or four more attempts before I finally managed to get him to open his mouth so I could pass the tube in. He hung down, the bottom few feet still in the bath water. With the stomach tube in place, he hung sullenly, obviously reluctant to coil with the rubber tube in him. With one hand, I managed to attach the sixty millilitre syringe onto the top of the tube and gently squirt in the mushy, grey-brown liquid.
I watched the last of it disappear down the tube with the aid of gravity, but before it had all gone down, Sidney decided to rebel. Flicking his tail up again, with the skill of a well practised contortionist, he began to coil. Dropping the syringe, I was forced to grab him mid-trunk and resist against the surprisingly powerful movements to keep him in a straight line, until all the fluid had trickled in. I tried to ignore the muscular rippling under my hands until I was satisfied that the tube was empty and I could safely remove it.
‘Right. That’s it. You’re done!’ I said, thankful at last to be able to release the head and drop him back into the vivarium before firmly replacing the lid.
The next week seemed to rotate around injections, baths and tube-feeding as it took a few hours each day to muster up the courage to approach my patient. By day three, the bubbles had stopped blowing out his nostril and when I reweighed him on day five, despite myself, I was pleased to see that he had put on some weight. By the end of the week, the previously dull skin was starting to shed and the thin backbone was not quite so visible. I felt confident that Sidney was beginning on the long road to recovery – I just didn’t know how long it would take. My main problem now was that as Sidney recovered his strength, he became livelier and more aware of my limitations as a snake handler. While he loved his bath and tolerated his injections, I could no longer tube him on my own. As soon as he would see the tube coming, he would coil himself firmly into a knot, knowing full well that I wouldn’t have the ability to force him out of it. By the sixth day, I offered Donal the option of holding his trunk or passing the stomach tube. Thankfully, he chose the former as I was much more confident at giving out directions than following them.
On the following Thursday morning, after Sidney had survived my tender, if not so loving care for a full week, the phone rang.
I was never more relieved to hear Dieter’s German accent booming down the line. He was aware of my reluctance with his beloved species, and he could never quite comprehend it.
‘But surely, you vill vant to keep him now you have made him better?’ he questioned.
‘Oh no, he’s all yours,’ I assured him quickly. ‘How soon do you think you can get here?’
So keen was Dieter to see his new charge that he insisted on making a detour from Dublin airport via Wicklow. By the time he arrived, I had all the medications and instructions packed. The only thing that remained was Sidney himself, who seemed to be a little feisty this morning. Graciously, I allowed Dieter the honour of loading his new addition.
‘Doesn’t look too bad now, does he?’ admired Dieter, as Sidney looped himself in slow, gracious movements up his arms and around his neck in a casual manner that he had never displayed with me.
Despite the mutual love-hate relationship that I had built up with Sidney, I was very relieved to see him being loaded into the back of the Ford Fiesta. As soon as the crunching of gravel stopped, I packed up all the containers, stomach tubes, heat pads and the whole array of accessories that he had used and soaked them in a strong disinfectant solution in the bath. That evening, having drained and dried all the accessories, I disinfected the bath, scrubbing it as it had never been scrubbed before. To this day, I still, personally, prefer to use the shower!
I was a bit surprised not to hear from Dieter over the next few days, but no news was most definitely good news in this case.
A few weeks later, just when the nightmares were beginning to fade and I was almost feeling brave enough to sleep with my feet sticking out from under the duvet, an A4 envelope arrived, lined on one side with stiff cardboard. Eagerly I ripped it open and to my horror, out fell a photograph of Sidney in mid-strike, jaws opened one hundred and eighty degrees wide around the scrawny body of a day-old chick. In horror, I dropped it, the quality of the photograph being so good that I could almost smell him again. The sheet enclosed read:
To Gillian.
As you can see the snake is now back to full health and eating well. Thanks again,
Dieter.
PS ‘Sidney’ is a female – have decided to call her Beauty.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A DIFFERENT CONSULTATION
Looking at the appointment book for tomorrow, I shuddered in horror. The morning would be taken up with an obese Labrador spay, followed by a messy TB test in a bachelor farmer’s pad, where organisation wouldn’t be the outstanding quality of the operation. But, for once, these didn’t worry me. What was causing my anguish was the afternoon appointment: 3.30pm: Gillian – annual accountant meeting.
Already I could picture myself meandering through the morning’s work, hoping that if I stalled long enough I could, justifiably, ring and postpone, knowing, however, that on the one morning that I wanted Terry Byrne to be his usual, disorganised self, he would have his meagre stock in perfect order. I mentally packed the two Solpadine which I could take before heading off to the brightly coloured office of the accountant, where, deceptively, real plants actually grew. However, the bright décor and living plants was where it all ended. Once trapped inside the four walls, I knew there would be no escape from the mental torture that lay ahead.
It had started some two months before when the odd memo had begun to appear in the day book: Gillian – call accountant. The next month: Gillian – accountant looking for files. Some weeks later: Gillian – accountant missing statements. On they went.
Although working within a practice, like most mixed animal practitioners I remained self-employed – a ploy, it seemed, devised to ensure the prosperity of account
ants for many generations to come. I actually thought that I was quite good at my end of things, meticulously filling in cheque stubs, filing invoices of paid and unpaid dockets, putting all the bank statements in one designated folder, even remembering to file the grey, not the blue copy of the chemist’s prescription (remembering grey for accountant – boring). However, despite my best efforts, the invisible goblin that seemed, on an annual basis, to accompany my carefully sorted accounts from our house to the accountant’s office somehow managed to delete files, mix up paid and unpaid invoices, eliminate whole cheque-book stubs – anything that could cause general chaos.
I soon discovered that going to the accountant was a bit like going to the doctor. Once you got inside, the exchanging of pleasantries, possibly designed to settle your nerves, inevitably served only to prolong the suspense. Once that was over (having probably added a significant amount to the bill) it was on to the nitty gritty of things.
‘On the twelfth of November you wrote a cheque for an undisclosed sum: explain!’
It was like being back at the oral exams in college but, in reality, I was more likely to be able to explain the fertility problem of a maiden mare than to come up with any logical explanation as to why there was no record of my VAT return for some particular two-month period.
On the day in question, at the appointed hour, I genuinely tried to focus, tried to show some interest in what was going to account for a significant percentage of my annual expenditure. As the besuited figure at the opposite side of the table pushed a few obscure figures around an A4 pad, I glanced around me, staring in bewilderment at the rows of dull-coloured books in various poses around the office. A few opened pages – rows of figures, formulae, percentages and deductions – not a single clinical sign or surgical instrument in sight. I wondered, yet again, how anyone could spend their life in this environment.