Dueling Visits to the Vet

On Saturday, Sister took Daisy the hamster to the vet to have her second mani-pedi. As you might recall, Daisy’s fist mani-pedi was back in March and it was, let’s just say, memorable for all involved. My readers might also recall that the day after Daisy's trip to the vet I demanded my own visit.

Well, it’s happened again. Daisy went to the vet at 10:30 on Saturday morning and I followed suit two hours later.

Here are our stories (the first of which features guest blogger Daisy):

Daisy’s Trip to the Vet

by Daisy the Hamster

On Saturday morning I was hanging out in my habitat, sleeping under some nice fluffy tissues in a little nest of bedding I created the night before, when all of a sudden Mom pulled back my tissues, scooped me up, and transferred me over to my small travel habitat which lacks all the amenities of home (no wheel, no food bowl, no water bottle) all of which I would have found extremely disturbing and rude if it wasn't for the fact that I was too sleepy to care--I'm nocturnal after all and Mom's morning is my late evening--and Mom seemed hell-bent on whatever she was doing which included carrying my travel habitat out to her car, driving off, parking, and carrying me into a building that I immediately recognized to be the place where I bit and drew blood from two technicians who tried to trim my nails.

After a couple of uncomfortable minutes of wearily watching four dogs watch me in the waiting room, I heard my name being called and Mom carried me into the exam room where I was greeted with the comment of "is she any easier to handle?" by the vet after which the vet stuck her hand in my habitat and chased me around about ten times trying to pick me up while muttering how fast I was until eventually getting such a good hold on me that not only was I unable to break free, but I was also unable to bite her fingers, which then allowed time for the vet technician, with much reservation, to come forward with the nail clippers that were bigger than me, grab hold of each of my tiny legs and trim each of my less than tiny nails only stopping long enough to ask the vet whether or not I had any dew claws that needed trimming.

In the mean time, I contemplated an alternative to squirming away or biting because last time I found myself in this predicament, I threw almost everything I had at escape--I bit, I wiggled, I jumped, I peed, I pooped--but nothing made any difference so this time I needed to come up with another strategy and while hanging there with the technician trimming my nails I came up with another idea which included spitting all the reserved seeds I had stored in my cheek pouch at my captors which, rather than make them cringe in horror, made them laugh which just made me angrier, but before I could spit the whole peanut half I had stored deep down in the recesses of my pouch (with the target of the nearby window) the technician said she was done and the vet, AKA "The Muscle," put me back in my travel habitat.

Mom carried me back into the waiting room which was now, thankfully, void of all dogs who could stare at me, paid for what she called my mani-pedi, carried me out to her car, drove home, and put me back in my habitat where, after stuffing the pumpkin seeds that Grams gave me into my newly empty cheek pouches, I scurried back to my nice fluffy tissue nest and fell asleep.

Rigby’s Trip to the Vet

by...well...me!

Pa couldn't take it any longer; he couldn't deal with my sad looks and my "poor busted snout."  It was time to go to the vet.

Now, I know some pups dislike going to the vet, but not me.  I’m a big fan of it and here’s why:

• It involves a ride in the car (always fun).
• I’m a big hit at the vet’s office (the receptionists all oooh and ahhh over me). 
• The vet always has nice things to say about me (like how sparkling white my teeth are).

Poor Busted Snout

So anyway, Doc. Petermann (my usual vet, Doc. Friedman, was off) called me into the exam room and took a look at my snout.  She said that the wound was healing nicely and that she'd give me some antibiotics just to make sure that it didn't get infected.  Now when someone says the word antibiotics, what I actually hear is the phrase peanut butter and pill sandwich (pill coated in peanut butter between a split oyster cracker).  One word:  YUM!  Anyway, I was standing there salivating when the doctor dropped a bombshell:  the scuff on my snout might never turn black again.  Well, it's a good thing I wasn't eating a peanut butter and pill sandwich at that moment because I would have spit it across the room in shock.  What do you mean my snout might not turn black again?!

Now in the past, Pa has been very supportive in situations such as this.  He's the one, after all, who told me that the scar by my eye (from when I tried moving the house with the side of my face) makes me look tough.  Well, he let me down this time.  Pa pointed out the fact that at the rate my nose was turning pink (he says I'm wearing it out by sniffing too much), the scuff need not even bother attempting to turn black.  What never!

And for the record, my nose is not turning pink!

Shortly thereafter, Pa and I left the office armed with a bruised relationship and a prescription bottle of antibiotics.  When we got home, Pa tried to make up for what he said about my nose by giving me my first peanut butter and pill sandwich.  I ate it, but only because I didn't want to waste the peanut butter.

So there you go:  one day, two vet stories, and neither one particularly pleasant.  I think I, however, deserve the most sympathy because the next day I was given a bath.  Talk about a bad weekend.

Ralphie!

And that leads to one other thing.  I'd like to take a moment to give a shout out to my friend Ralphie who had surgery on Thursday for a hematoma ear and is now sporting "The Cone of Shame."  Ralphie, I hope you feel better real soon, but until then, please enjoy this video of me carrying on after my most recent bath; I know how much you enjoy the howling.