by Laurie Hess
“Mr. Huntington said he bought Pockets at a kiosk just outside Sears,” I said, looking to my left and right. There were vendors selling sunglasses, cell phone sleeves, e-cigarettes, and remote-controlled monster trucks.
“I don’t see any sugar gliders,” Elliot said. “Should we ask?” He pointed toward the information desk.
Elliot and I approached a twenty-something woman with candy cane lips and blond curls tucked under a Santa hat. She smiled and crinkled her nose—nonverbal confirmation that she was a helpful elf.
“I’m looking for a vendor called Sugar Buddies.” I said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Sugar what?” She twirled a chunky piece of hair around her finger.
“They sell mar-su-pee-als,” I enunciated. As the last consonant slipped out of my mouth, her cheery disposition faded. I could see that I’d insulted her by sounding like a snooty schoolteacher, and before I could apologize, she said, “Ma’am, I can spell, but I don’t know that word you’re looking for.”
Elliot took a jaunty step forward and pointed at her name tag. “Hi—Jackie, is it?”
She happily shifted her attention from me and nodded at Elliot.
“We’re looking for a pet vendor,” he explained. “They sell animals called sugar gliders.”
“Oh,” she said, lighting up again, now with recognition. “Are those the flying squirrels?”
“It’s a gliding membrane that allows them to fly,” I interjected.
Jackie glanced back at me with a look like, Why are you still talking?
Oops, I couldn’t help myself. I was just so anxious for answers. I closed my mouth and stepped back, grateful that I’d brought Elliot along. With his friendly face and easy temperament, he never offends anyone.
“What she means,” Elliot said with a grin, “is that they do look like flying squirrels.”
“That’s what I thought. It’s a squirrel with a monkey tail, right?” She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s like, I know what I saw.”
“So you’ve seen them?” Elliot asked.
Jackie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The mall had to add extra security just to keep the crowds under control. They were jumping and flying all over the place. The kids were going nuts over those squirrels.” She stopped and giggled. “Nuts over squirrels, that’s funny.”
“They are very popular,” Elliot agreed. “‘Most Popular Exotic Pet,’ says People magazine.”
“Really?” Jackie was wide-eyed.
Elliot was flirting. He doesn’t even read People. I cleared my throat, and Elliot picked up on my cue.
“So, hey, Jackie, do you know where we can find the flying squirrels?”
“Oh, they’re gone now,” she said with a pout. “Packed up two days ago.”
Elliot mirrored her disappointment and asked, “Any idea where they went?”
“Not a clue.”
I could feel my body deflate, and I let out a sigh. Without seeing the kiosk, I couldn’t determine if anything about the gliders’ care or display might be causing the illness that was making them sick. Now what? I could continue to play private investigator, but that would take more time—minutes, hours, and potentially more days that I was running out of. Mathilda’s health was declining; she was on borrowed time.
Jackie tilted her head, and the silver bell on the tip of her hat made a jingling sound. “I did overhear someone say that the flying squirrels came from some farm outside town.” She giggled again. “Like they’re cows or something.” Elliot and I exchanged a knowing glance.
“Thank you,” I said. I could understand why Jackie found the comparison between a cow and a sugar glider laughable, but exotic animals are often raised on farms in large numbers, just like cows.
In fact, breeding farms like what Jackie had described exist all across the world, depending on the species. I was already familiar with a facility in upstate New York that breeds and supplies the majority of ferrets to pet stores across the country. I’d also heard about a smaller farm in Putnam County that breeds mini pigs. Often these farms are in undisclosed places that companies don’t advertise so as not to draw public attention to them. Farms that breed animals for sale are often referred to as “mills” and receive unfavorable attention and criticism, given that so many pets are abandoned at shelters and in need of rescue and new homes. I try not to take a political position either way and instead focus on what I’m trained to do: provide treatment and save lives.
As soon as we were back in the car, I asked Elliot, “Do an online search for ‘Sugar Buddies.’ See if their company website states where they breed their gliders.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Hess.” A few taps later, Elliot announced, “There’s an address here for a corporate office in Fairfield County.”
“That’s in Connecticut. Less than an hour away.”
“You think that’s actually the farm where they breed the animals?”
“We’ll find out.”
I was beginning to feel hopeful again. I quickly called Marnie to check in on Lily and Mathilda.
“How are the girls?”
“Weak but holding steady.”
“And how are you?”
“Oh, you know, just another exciting day at the animal hospital. Harlow the hedgehog is in the waiting room, itching himself all over. And I mean, all over. He’s managed to contort himself into positions I didn’t think were even possible. It’s the hedgehog version of Cirque du Soleil. Impressive, really.”
I tried to picture it. Hedgehogs aren’t the most flexible or agile creatures. They have short, skimpy legs, and like porcupines, they’re covered in sharp quills all over their back to deter predators from picking them up. When they roll themselves defensively into a tight ball—their signature move—they look like Weebles, the wobbling kids’ toys popular in the 1970s. Captive hedgehogs are especially unsteady, as they tend to be housed in cages with little opportunity to exercise and they love to overeat. I’ve been putting portly hedgehogs on crash diets ever since I started my practice.
“What’s he in for?”
“Irritable itching.”
“Really, is that a new medical term?”
“That’s what Gerry and Kurt are calling it.” I could hear her amusement over the phone.
“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Probably just mites. A simple shot will take care of that.”
“Ha! Try telling Gerry that.”
Gerry had gotten so anxious waiting for Harlow’s test results the last time he visited the hospital that I thought he might hyperventilate.
“I promise we’ll be back soon. In the meantime, try to keep Gerry calm.”
“I have a paper bag ready.”
I’d previously treated Harlow for “excess saliva,” another medical term Kurt and Gerry had made up. They came bursting through the hospital doors one afternoon and insisted I draw blood and “test for everything.” Gerry held out a foaming Harlow and extended him toward me. Handling a nervous hedgehog can be tricky, as the animal will tend to twitch and contract the muscles on its back, raising its usually flattened quills straight up, at which point they can easily poke the handler’s skin. I asked Marnie to fetch me a small towel to wrap Harlow in until he relaxed, and then I ran a series of blood tests to put them at ease.
“Is it rabies?” Gerry asked with urgency. “I’ve heard that dogs foam at the mouth when they have rabies. Do you think Harlow has rabies? Should we be getting rabies shots if we’ve been exposed?” Gerry wrung his hands and paced around the examination room. He turned to his partner, Kurt. “Was Harlow vaccinated?”
“Well, actually—” I said.
“I know what it is,” he interrupted. “It’s that Lyme disease, isn’t it?”
“Gerry,” Kurt said calmly, “let the woman talk.”
“But, honey, they say that this is the worst area for Lyme disease, and there’s deer ticks everywhere. Two people at the office came down with it last summer. And remember when that popular l
ittle girl singer that we like, the one who wears all the black eyeliner—Avril Lavigne—got it? Horrible, horrible disease.”
Gerry was an emotional runaway train, so I simply got out of his way and took Harlow with me. I scooped up the small brown-and-white hedgehog before he could curl into a tight ball and roll right off the exam table. Harlow seemed a peculiar pet choice for Gerry and Kurt. Native to Africa and also the United Kingdom, hedgehogs tend to be shy creatures that recoil from loud noise, preferring quiet and dimly lit environments. Yet as I stroked Harlow’s sugar white, soft underbelly fur, he slowly let out a carefree purr, indicating that he was completely at ease—even with Gerry, whose personality was nothing less than bright, big, and booming.
“Gerry,” Kurt said, holding steady. “Let Dr. Hess look at Harlow and tell us what’s wrong. That’s why we’re here, remember?”
“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Gerry turned to me with intensity. But just as I was about to reassure him that Harlow did not have Lyme disease, he jumped back in, asking, “Isn’t Connecticut the worst place for Lyme disease? They even named a town after it.”
“That’s why it’s called Lyme disease, Gerry. It originated there.”
“Oh, my God, that’s it.” Gerry put his hands up to his neck. “What if Harlow gave it to us?” He began pressing his skin. “My glands feel a little bit swollen.”
Kurt took a deep breath. “You don’t have Lyme.”
If I allowed them to, Gerry and Kurt would volley back and forth like this forever. I tapped on the computer screen to bring up Harlow’s blood panel to show Gerry.
“Look at this.” I pointed at the reading. “Harlow’s negative for Lyme.” I knew that would be the result before I’d even run the test because hedgehogs rarely, if ever, get Lyme disease. To my knowledge, there’s only been one reported case ever in a hedgehog, and that animal lived primarily outdoors.
Gerry was nonplussed. “But all that foamy saliva,” he sputtered. “That can’t be healthy. Is it rabies, then?”
We were back to rabies. Kurt looked up at me with a defeated shrug.
“Harlow does not have Lyme or rabies. In fact, he’s a very healthy little guy. Harlow is exhibiting a normal behavior for hedgehogs. It’s called self-anointing.”
Gerry knit his brow. “Self what?”
“Hedgehogs have a keen sense of smell, and when they encounter a new scent, especially if it’s something new in their environment, they will lick the object until they form a sort of ‘spit ball’ that they use to cover themselves.” I pointed to Harlow’s back. “That’s the foamy lather you see.”
Gerry made a face of distaste. “And this is normal?”
“Completely normal. Can you think of anything new with an unusual or unfamiliar smell that you’ve introduced into his environment lately?”
Kurt shot Gerry a look. “It’s the spritzer.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Gerry dismissed him. “And please, it’s called cologne.”
Kurt turned to me, “He’s been wearing a new ‘cologne.’”
“Guile—from Barneys.” Gerry added. “It smells like vanilla, mint, and lavender.”
“And Harlow wasn’t foaming up at all before you started wearing it,” Kurt offered.
Gerry rolled his eyes.
I couldn’t help but smile at their niggling exchange. Gerry folded his arms. “What’s funny, Doctor?”
“It smells lovely, but if Kurt’s right and Harlow didn’t start foaming up until it was introduced into the home, then—”
“You need to stop wearing it,” Kurt finished my sentence.
“Yes.” I nodded in agreement. “This is my best medical advice.”
Gerry threw his hands up in defeat, and Kurt sweetly took one of them in his own. “What have I been telling you? You smell better without it.”
Gerry blushed and shook him off. “Oh, stop. Don’t be dirty in front of the baby.”
He carefully picked Harlow up off the examination table.
“Come to Daddy,” he whispered. Harlow relaxed his prickly spines, and Gerry cuddled him affectionately. For the first time since he’d walked into the exam room, Gerry let out a deep exhale.
12:00 P.M., SUGAR BUDDIES’
“CORPORATE OFFICE”
I ONCE PARTICIPATED in a sting operation with a licensed reptile rehabilitator and the Southern Westchester County Police Department. We seized more than one hundred illegal reptiles, including rare species of tortoises and giant snakes, from an abandoned warehouse where the breeder had set up shop. He’d gone out of town and entrusted the care of the animals to one of his employees, who had decided to take the money and run. For two weeks, the poor animals had been left unfed and baking in cages under heat lamps in a badly ventilated warehouse in the middle of July.
It was like something out of Law & Order: Reptile Division. The warehouse smelled so bad from rotting flesh that we had to wear gas masks to retrieve the animals. Many of them had died, and those still alive were badly burned and dehydrated by the time we arrived. We carefully transported them from the warehouse to the animal hospital, where I could rehydrate them and treat their wounds, but it was months before the survivors had recovered enough to be adopted or transferred to a rescue organization. I’d heard stories of illegal reptile brokers in the past, but I had never imagined anything as horrific as what I saw that night.
This experience reinforced my commitment to advise clients to purchase any exotic animal from a reputable breeder or to adopt it from a responsible source. A breeder’s practices, including how the animal is housed and fed and what other animals it is exposed to, can determine the health of any animal, so I only refer clients to breeders with reputations for being careful and meticulous or who display and sell animals at reputable pet shows, where the clients can not only buy a new pet but also acquire all the accouterments—cage, light, heater, bedding, and food—that the animal requires.
As Elliot and I drove down a long gravel driveway toward the address entered in our GPS, I shuddered at the memory of all those abused reptiles and braced myself for whatever we might find. But as we made one last turn, the farm setting was so beautiful that I wondered if the map had led us astray. Had we taken a wrong turn? On one side of the road, an orchard of dormant apple trees extended their crooked limbs in silent greeting. On the other, an expansive pasture stretched out to a frozen pond. Ahead, a barn that slanted slightly to the side stood in front of a grove of tall pine trees, all dusted in snow. Red roosters and hens flocked together, pecking at a patch of feed just outside the big barn doors, and a potbellied pig lumbered around the side. He looked up and grunted in our direction as we drew closer.
“Well, this is picturesque,” I said to Elliot.
Any sickness breeding here wasn’t apparent on the surface. I pulled into the dirt parking lot and cut the engine just as the figure of a man emerged from an adjacent nineteenth-century farmhouse.
“Hello,” I called as I got out of the car. I suddenly felt silly wearing my white lab coat over my jeans and riding boots. Elliot had talked me into it on the drive out from the mall.
“Makes you look official,” he had encouraged me. “You know, like a real doctor.”
I cast him a sideways look. “I am a real doctor. But I know what you mean. I’ll put it on.”
Dressed in denim jeans and a woolly, cranberry sweater, the man walked comfortably toward us across the parking lot.
“Good morning, I’m Simon Daniels,” he said, extending his hand. “Awfully cold for a farm tour, isn’t it?” he grinned, looking a bit like Hugh Grant and not at all like the suspicious breeder type.
I took his hand and shook it. “I’m Dr. Laurie Hess of the Veterinary Center for Birds & Exotics in Bedford Hills, and this is my intern, Elliot.”
“Ah, yes, in Westchester County. I’ve heard of it,” he said and nodded warmly at Elliot. “What can I do you for?”
Simon’s easy charm disarmed me, and I paused, but then I forced an image
of Mathilda lying listless at the bottom of her cage. We were here for her and Lily. “We understand you breed sugar gliders?”
“I do,” he said without hesitation as his grin returned. “This farm has been in my family for two generations. My father and my father’s father. Breeding animals is about all I know how to do.” He laughed easily at himself.
“And you sell your gliders as well?”
“I do that too, although I don’t sell them here.” He cocked his head to the side. “You interested in buying gliders, Doctor?”
“No.” I paused. “But I think I’ve treated a few of yours that were sold at the mall—Johnson Valley?”
“Yes, I have a Sugar Buddies kiosk there. Many of my babies were recently adopted from that location.” Simon beamed. “Lots of people scooped them up for holiday gifts.”
Elliot and I exchanged a regretful look.
“Is something wrong?” Simon stopped. “Did you say you recently ‘treated’ some of my gliders?”
“At least two gliders from Johnson Valley Mall arrived at my hospital very sick. I’ve treated three others who might have come from there too.” I cleared my throat. “All but one has died.”
“What?” he took a disarming step back.
“From what appears to be malnutrition,” I continued. “Their seizures and tremors were textbook—very common in gliders with diets low in calcium, vitamin D, and protein—but I ran blood tests on every single one of them. I studied their X-rays, and it’s not malnutrition. Something else is making them sick. Very sick.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Simon said. “Slow down. My gliders are dying? I don’t understand.”
“We don’t, either. That’s why we’re here.” I paused and looked around the yard.
Simon followed my gaze. “I hope you don’t think they’re dying because of something we’re doing here at the farm?”
That had been my hunch. But now I wasn’t so sure. Of course I’d only just met him, but I sensed that Simon was one of the good guys, a responsible and trustworthy breeder. And yet he’d just confirmed my lead that the gliders sold at Johnson Valley Mall had come directly from his farm. Though this didn’t explain the spread of the sickness throughout the country, there was no denying that I’d just made a solid link between at least two of the sick gliders admitted to my hospital—Pockets and Mathilda.