A few years ago, I called Mr. G. from my cellphone. I was in my car. He was at home manning the barbecue pit.
"I need you to come to the front of the subdivision," I told him. "And bring a shovel, some heavy gloves and a garbage bag."
Mr. G. sighed.
"I just lit the charcoal," he said. "I can't come."
He didn't blink. He didn't ask why I needed a shovel, heavy gloves and a garbage bag. He didn't even ask if I needed a lawyer ... or a priest.
Now I could take this one of two ways.
Either Mr. G. figured, eh, he'd let the police handle it or he's completely unflappable. Or he didn't feel like driving to the LSU Vet School.
So that's actually one of three ways.
I hit a rabbit: a huge jackrabbit with dill pickle-sized back feet and gray fur. His back feet really were the size of dill pickles - not those puny pickles you get in a regular-sized jar but the abnormally huge pickles that come in the jars they sell at Sam's.
I clipped the rabbit despite swerving to try and avoid it. He laid in the roadway quivering while I frantically tried to find something that would help me get him into the car and on our way to the Vet School.
Coming up empty (and not wanting to touch a wild, injured animal with my bare hands), I called Mr. G. He eventually grudgingly arrived at the front of the neighborhood with the shovel, heavy gloves and garbage bag (and never once asked ahead of time why I needed them). The rabbit took one look at our supplies and bounced himself to his feet before bounding across someone's yard and away into the Louisiana night.
 |
| We kind of, sort of prefer animals to people in my family. It's not personal! |
The vet school is my depository for sick, wild animals. In my mind, they nurse them back to health and release them into Snow White's wooded kingdom where they spend the rest of their days frolicking and singing. For all I know, they euthanize them after solemnly promising me that everything will be OK and that I can go home. It's probably better that I not know.
Years ago, I was at the vet school late one night with my old dog when someone brought in a hurt animal. The person handed the hurt animal over, and the attendant asked if she was relinquishing it to the vet school's care and refusing all financial responsibility. A lightbulb went off in my head. Any hurt animal I find can be brought to the vet school and nursed back to health for free! The only catch is that I can't come and try to reclaim my giant, wild, feral jackrabbit. No problem!
Mostly, I bring them baby squirrels that Bailey finds. She never hurts them, which is amazing considering she's iffy on most other dogs. She gently picks them up by the neck and drops them at my feet. I've learned how to pick up baby squirrels so they don't bite me (thus far).
 |
| My love of animals even extends to this nutcase who cracked the squirrel-proof birdfeeder. |
So I told him the story about the baby bird.
A few months back, I was in the back yard when I noticed Bailey playfully charging something. It's her favorite game: she charges, retreats and then charges again in the hope that the ball, stuffed animal, cat will play chase. Just knowing she'd found a rat - and forcing myself to walk over there anyway because it could be diseased and bite her (Motherhood!) - I found a baby bird that had fallen out of his nest.
I sped walked Bailey into the house and returned with a shoebox only to see a cat darting out of the yard from the corner of my eye. Looking over at the spot where the bird had been, I saw it was empty. Then I looked up into the tree, and I swear, a mother bird was glaring at me.
I told Mr. G. this story, and he renewed his hatred of all cats that don't reside at our house. A short time later, a bird slammed into the picture window in the den. I was at work, but Mr. G. grabbed a shoebox and the bird and sped to the vet school. The bird couldn't be saved.
But isn't it nice that now both of us are bringing the Animal Kingdom to the vet school?
