Itchy and scratchy

Vodka had to go to the animal hospital today. I noticed this morning when I cleaned out the hams’ cages that he had a horrible big scab on his tummy, and that he had lost fur under his neck and on his legs. He was also scratching like mad. It happened so quickly; he was fine a few days ago, nothing amiss, although I must admit that, given his bitey behaviour when we was a teen ham, I am always careful when I handle him and don’t often see his tummy. I did some quick online research and learned that he might have mites—very contagious and devilishly difficult to get rid of—which sounded like a real treat. I considered going to the pet store for some anti-mite spray, but the poor little dude was damaging himself with his scratching and biting.
So Tim rang a couple of vets until he found an animal hospital with experience treating “pocket pets,” as Voddy’s kind are known in the biz, and we were told to arrive any time after 3.30pm, when the doctor with expertise treating rodents and reptiles would be in.
We got there at 4pm, having first driven to 9th Street instead of 9th Avenue, to learn that the reptile/rodent man was stuck in traffic. It took an hour for him to arrive during which time a swarm of children crowded round Vodka’s cage and demanded to see him (he was tucked up in a wad of toilet paper trying to pretend he was roaming the Siberian steppes) and played a game of opening and shutting the surgery door over and over. Finally, a family with two sick dwarf hamsters—chocolate colored ones who’d gone off their food—went in to see the doctor. Soon it became apparent that at least one of them was a goner. Well, we couldn’t help but form that impression when the older boy came out of the exam room saying, “He’s going to kill Twinkie. I don’t know why Mom’s crying. Hamsters only cost $3. We can buy more.”
Another hour had passed.
A girl with two bottle-cap sized turtles disappeared into the exam room. Outside, a guy with headphones and a floppy blue sun hat started to dance on the footpath in front of a shiny green pick up truck, admiring his reflection. He really got into it. He had no shame whatsoever. After 10 minutes or so he sat down with a flourish, opened a book and read aloud as if making a speech, say a State of the Union address, to a crowd of thousands. A homeless guy wearing an eye patch and pushing a shopping cart full of plastic bags, and boxes, and goodness knows what, trundled past. He parked his trolley, chatted with the dancer/orator, clapped him on the back and yelled a bit. Pulled out a harmonica and began to play. At which point Tippy Toes Blue Hat began to dance again. I am not making any of this up.
Another hour had passed.
Finally, it was our turn. Vodka was weighed—he is a hefty 49 grams—and examined. The vet pulled off the horrible scab and invited us to touch it. It looked like cheese and felt like that old-fashioned almond icing that ends up on Christmas cakes. He turned the lights off and shone a UV light on Voddy’s tum to check for ringworm, which, he explained, glows apple green. It did. He took a skin scraping and checked the sample for mites under a microscope. All clear. And then he cleaned out the cheesy abscess behind the scab which, it turned out, was like nothing he’d ever seen. It went on and on, so deep that when he reached the end of the cheese he could see through Vodka’s skin to his liver. “You could stick a pencil eraser up there,” he said. “Now you have a little kangaroo hamster.”
Another hour-and-a-half had passed.
So Vodka is fine. He has a big hole in his tummy which I have to keep an eye on in case food and other debris gets stuck up there. I have to clean it out with an ear swab every month or so. And for the next week I have to spread vaginal cream on his chest and under his arms to deal with the itchy ringworm.
As soon as we got home he jumped into his wheel, his favorite spot in the world, and hunkered down for some quiet time. I am willing to bet money he was supersonically screaming at Lime: "They poked a hole in my tummy and now I have to wear lady cream. What the f***!"