She exudes a level of high-energy health that makes the cast of the High School Musical look like a ward full of anemia patients. She makes Kristen Chenoworth seem dour and repressed. When I watch a Shirley Temple vehicle, I often find myself thinking, 'Yeah, but if that were Newington, there'd really be some sparkle-motion up on that screen.'
So I was quite alarmed last week when I went to pick her up from her cage for a quick cuddle and was presented with this:
Artist's Rendering: Ebola Stoat
Yes, my stoat had apparently contracted the Ebola virus and was bleeding like an overly literal Twilight Fan from one of her eyes. Needless to say, I freaked out.
After stopping the bleeding with some cold water (all the while with Newington protesting, 'Oi'm foine, Oi am. Let's stop all this kerfuffle and 'ave a roight ol' knees-up!"), I called the vet. Boy, was I in luck -- they had an open slot in half an hour and they'd be happy to squeeze me in.
The question of how to get Newington from my house to the vet's now presented itself. My first thought was to carry her in my arms, perhaps with her harness on as an extra precaution.
HA!
Stoat Newington has more wiggles than a shimmy contest at a Katherine Hepburn impersonators' convention. I got about two steps before I realized that this was not going to work.
And so a few short minutes later found me standing on the train with a dog-carrier that apparently contained a live dinosuar.
Don't worry -- we only cloned females
Aside from the worried looks I was getting from passengers who probably felt that if the boxed-up creature could operate a door handle, then a mere zipper would pose no challenge, I was getting a little nervous.
See, I have this irrational yet intense phobia that my vet and his staff think that I'm stalking him. Part of this fear is caused by the fact that I come in a lot -- although, rationally, all that means is that I have five pets and I'm a good owner who is concerned for their health.
The other part of this fear is caused by the fact that my vet looks almost exactly like David Tennant:
Yeah, this guy
I don't have a crush on my vet. I really don't. No, I'm not protesting too much. I genuinely don't get crushes on people I meet 'in real life', partly because I'm married and partly because...it just seems weird somehow.
However, I am very conscious that Da-vet Tennant is someone that people probably do have crushes on, lots of people. And every time I bring an animal in and there turns out to be nothing seriously wrong with it (FiFi is especially guilty of phantom illnesses), I feel like he must be thinking, 'This crazy woman is clearly suffering from Munchhausen-by-Petsy and is desperate for my wiry, yet rugged, bod.'
Then I get embarassed, even though I know I'm projecting.
This is relevant because when I pulled Ebola Stoat out for her examination, this is what Da-vet Tennant saw:
No, really, Dr. Tennant, I swear there was blood everywh -- oh, never mind
So, what was his diagnosis the mysterious ailment that turned my ferret into a dead-ringer for the Outbreak monkey?A pimple. A stoat pimple. A stimple, if you would.
Since when do weasels get acne? Am I going to have to start buying Murad System for my stoats? When I can't sleep at 3 am, am I going to see I.M. Weasel being celebrity spokesanimal on a ProActiv informercial? Most troubling of all, how do you work Retin-A through all that fur?
On the bright side, Stoat Newington continues to feel awesome (not that she ever felt noticeably bad, even when she was in Carrie-at-the-Prom mode) and the stimple is healing nicely.
Please note: objects in camera lens are larger than they appear
In person, the scab is virtually invisible.
So, until the next time that FiFi decides she has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome -- au revoir, Dr. Tennant.
P.S. I really don't have a crush on you. Seriously. For realz. Gah, the more I say it the less anyone will believe me. Forget I even mentioned it.
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