into its water bowl, and I came to find out if we should provide it with a bigger one, or maybe put it in an aquarium, you know, with water all over the bottom, and maybe some rocks?”
Heaven save me from people who don’t know how to use Google. Aloud, I said, “Didn’t the place where you bought it tell you how to care for it?”
“Well, they said it eats pinkies, and that’s about it. I don’t even know what a pinkie is. My son feeds it baby mice.”
“A pinkie is a baby mouse,” I said, with as much patience as I could muster. “How often does your son handle the snake?”
“Oh, as soon as he gets home from school, he gets it out of the cage, and carries it around until dinner. He likes to try to scare his sisters with it, or show it off to the neighborhood boys. He isn’t at all afraid of it,” she added with pride.
“Well, it’s afraid of him,” I said. Asperity colored my tone as I went on. “I’d suggest you get a book about the care of ball pythons so you won’t forget any of this. Snakes, especially ball pythons, don’t like to be handled. Your son should handle it no more than fifteen minutes at a time, no more than two or three times a week. Crawling into the water dish is its way of showing its stress. Does it have a place in its cage to hide?”
“No, should it?”
“Absolutely. It’s going to die if your son keeps handling it like that. Tell him if he wants it to live, don’t handle it for at least three weeks.”
“Well, what fun is that?” The rest of my patience made a run for it, so I counted to ten before I said something offensive.
“It isn’t about what’s fun, Mrs., er. It’s about what’s best for the animal. If your son isn’t old enough to understand the difference, I doubt he is old enough to be responsible for an exotic animal. Or any animal. There is nothing wrong with this snake that proper care won’t fix. Please hand this to Megan on your way out,” I said, giving her a slip of paper with a full office visit charge on it. Mrs. Whatever looked at the number and gasped.
“But, you didn’t do anything! $60 to tell me the damn snake is stressed?”
“Did you know he was stressed before?” I asked. My tone was dangerous, but perhaps she didn’t know that.
“Hmph. Dr. Simmons wouldn’t have charged me this much.”
“Perhaps not, but he is not here and I am.” I felt sorry for the snake, knowing there was no way the family would ever bring him back here. However, I had no doubt it wouldn’t last long anyway, because the woman didn’t seem all that interested in making her son take proper care of it. In fact, I should probably report the family to the SPCA, but it might not do any good, since the nearest local branch was located in Boulder.
My mood was not improved by that first patient visit. When I judged that the woman and Megan had had enough time to have a bitch session about me, I went out to see what we had on the schedule for today.
“You look like shit,” was the pleasant greeting my loving tech/receptionist gave me. “And I cut that bill in half. What were you thinking?”
I was thinking that the woman deserved a wake up call, but now I was thinking that I’d like to throttle the nineteen-year-old who was making my life miserable. Along with everyone else in the world.
“Megan, are there any appointments scheduled for today?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
“Yes, one at four. One of Mrs. P’s cats.”
“Okay. I don’t feel well. I’m going home for the morning, but I’ll be back in time to relieve you for lunch. If there are any walk-ins, schedule them for afternoon, unless it’s an emergency. In that case, you can call me.”
I walked out without waiting for Megan’s answer, knowing it would only provoke me more. By the time I crawled back into my bed, the migraine that had been hovering in the background
Heaven save me from people who don’t know how to use Google. Aloud, I said, “Didn’t the place where you bought it tell you how to care for it?”
“Well, they said it eats pinkies, and that’s about it. I don’t even know what a pinkie is. My son feeds it baby mice.”
“A pinkie is a baby mouse,” I said, with as much patience as I could muster. “How often does your son handle the snake?”
“Oh, as soon as he gets home from school, he gets it out of the cage, and carries it around until dinner. He likes to try to scare his sisters with it, or show it off to the neighborhood boys. He isn’t at all afraid of it,” she added with pride.
“Well, it’s afraid of him,” I said. Asperity colored my tone as I went on. “I’d suggest you get a book about the care of ball pythons so you won’t forget any of this. Snakes, especially ball pythons, don’t like to be handled. Your son should handle it no more than fifteen minutes at a time, no more than two or three times a week. Crawling into the water dish is its way of showing its stress. Does it have a place in its cage to hide?”
“No, should it?”
“Absolutely. It’s going to die if your son keeps handling it like that. Tell him if he wants it to live, don’t handle it for at least three weeks.”
“Well, what fun is that?” The rest of my patience made a run for it, so I counted to ten before I said something offensive.
“It isn’t about what’s fun, Mrs., er. It’s about what’s best for the animal. If your son isn’t old enough to understand the difference, I doubt he is old enough to be responsible for an exotic animal. Or any animal. There is nothing wrong with this snake that proper care won’t fix. Please hand this to Megan on your way out,” I said, giving her a slip of paper with a full office visit charge on it. Mrs. Whatever looked at the number and gasped.
“But, you didn’t do anything! $60 to tell me the damn snake is stressed?”
“Did you know he was stressed before?” I asked. My tone was dangerous, but perhaps she didn’t know that.
“Hmph. Dr. Simmons wouldn’t have charged me this much.”
“Perhaps not, but he is not here and I am.” I felt sorry for the snake, knowing there was no way the family would ever bring him back here. However, I had no doubt it wouldn’t last long anyway, because the woman didn’t seem all that interested in making her son take proper care of it. In fact, I should probably report the family to the SPCA, but it might not do any good, since the nearest local branch was located in Boulder.
My mood was not improved by that first patient visit. When I judged that the woman and Megan had had enough time to have a bitch session about me, I went out to see what we had on the schedule for today.
“You look like shit,” was the pleasant greeting my loving tech/receptionist gave me. “And I cut that bill in half. What were you thinking?”
I was thinking that the woman deserved a wake up call, but now I was thinking that I’d like to throttle the nineteen-year-old who was making my life miserable. Along with everyone else in the world.
“Megan, are there any appointments scheduled for today?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
“Yes, one at four. One of Mrs. P’s cats.”
“Okay. I don’t feel well. I’m going home for the morning, but I’ll be back in time to relieve you for lunch. If there are any walk-ins, schedule them for afternoon, unless it’s an emergency. In that case, you can call me.”
I walked out without waiting for Megan’s answer, knowing it would only provoke me more. By the time I crawled back into my bed, the migraine that had been hovering in the background
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