As we drove through the foggy and rainy highways to Asheville, I tried to imagine every situation possible of how he could have injured himself. I knew his foot was broken or sprained or something had happened with a ligament. The roads were disgusting and dangerous. Chris tried to round each curve as gentle as possible in the slippery, wet conditions. Meanwhile, Nimbus scrabbled and tried to chew his way through the carrier. He could have done it, too. Nimbus's carrier is also Sparta's. It's a cat carrier made of tough cloth and rubber mesh. It would take Nimbus 10 minutes or so to figure out how to escape. I tried every way of shushing him, even sticking my hand in the carrier. He let me stroke him for about a minute. Then, he realized how my hand was in the carrier with him. Biting and kicking, he tried to shove my hand out of the way to freedom.
Finally, we arrived at the emergency vet at 2 in the morning. REACH is a beautiful facility located just off I-40. There are two waiting rooms, one for dogs and one for cats. We choose the cat waiting area since there were two dogs and their owners waiting for help. I filled out all the paperwork. And then, we waited as Nimbus scrabbled, chewed, barked and tried to dig his way out of the carrier. He did manage to succeed in pulling apart a few of the rubber strands. Holding my heavy winter coat over the carrier to protect him from the fluorescent lights, I hoped to comfort him. However, with my scratchy, nearly nonexistent voice from the respiratory infection, I must have sounded like an alien frog to him. Finally, we were called back.
I'm not sure why the nurse assistant brought out a scale for a cat, but she did. She blamed the scale for not reading the weight of Nimbus and malfunctioning, but I'm beginning to think that the scale didn't even pick up Nimbus's presence at all. He's supposed to weigh about a pound, but it's all fluff. Finally, she brought in a much more appropriate scale, jotted it down along with his injury details and left for the vet. Nimbus, eyes bright and ears alert, kept hopping on the examination table then back into the carrier as he made short adventures to explore this world. It was the last time I saw him as my beautiful, happy, perky Nimbus.
Dr. Gibson was our vet, and she immediately went for Nimbus to examine his foot. I prayed that she'd have better luck than I and that we could just move along with a diagnose. No such luck. As she wrestled with my chinchilla, I had to hold back tears and tell myself this was all for his benefit. He certainly didn't take it that way. Chirping. Barking. Biting. Struggling. A tiny painful squeak. It makes me sick to remember it. But, what else was she supposed to do? In the end, Nimbus escaped into the carrier, and Dr. Gibson announced that they needed to take an X-ray. To do so, anesthesia was needed. My heart jumped to my throat. To sign that paperwork and hover a pen over whether to agree to resuscitate Nimbus if necessary, I suddenly couldn't remember a more important decision in my lifetime. I checked Yes, and then wondered why. What type of traumatic stress would he go through in order to get him back from death? Wasn't all this pain enough? Was I so selfish that I couldn't let him go peacefully?
When they took my baby away, I collapsed against the cushioned bench with tears streaking my face. I hugged his bunny to my chest and prayed and prayed. Chris ushered me out into the waiting. By now it was 2:45 a.m. Chris kept making comments about their frog tank, the different magazines and if I wanted a cup of coffee before I just snapped at him. When I'm handling a crisis, I don't want anyone near me. If I'm in physical or emotional pain, you better give me a wide berth because I'll take your head off. If I ever have a child (which isn't in my life plan at the moment), God help the father if he so much as shows up in the room.
At 3:15, Dr. Gibson returned and her diagnose left me speechless. The X-rays showed no broken bones. It was a healthy chinchilla skeleton, the scariest image I've come across. First, there's a standard rodent skeleton but with the outline of his large velvety ears and his large teeth. I was terrified!
"So, he has a large laceration on his bicep that goes under and around his arm," said Dr. Gibson.
My jaw dropped. Chris didn't say a word. Our minds with buzzing with how on earth could he have gotten an injury like that? I could only think that there must be a sharp edge in his cage because how could Sansa have gotten a claw under his upper arm, a body part that is usually tucked into the fur of his chest... I still can't figure it out, and it torments me. How am I supposed to keep it from happening again if I don't know what IT is??
Dr. Gibson stitched Nimbus up while Chris and I waited and waited and prayed and prayed. I just wanted my baby to wake up. I couldn't stand the thought of him under the spell of drugged sleep. When we saw him again, I rushed into the room. There was my little chinchilla with large wet circles around his eyes and a fat cast on his right arm. I've never seen such a miserable creature. My heart broke at his pain and his misery. But, it only got worse. Nimbus is required to ingest medication twice a day. There is the antibacterial liquid every 12 hours but then there's the pain medication every 24 hours. Whether or not this stuff is good for his fragile digestive system, I can't tell you. I just had to trust them, and there's a big part of me that doesn't. It's not because they're bad vets or because it's a horrible facility. On the contrary, it is a beautiful place, and everyone we encountered was extremely helpful. I just don't trust my baby with anyone else but me. To watch this male assistant shove two syringes of medication into Nimbus's mouth while I held him down left me feeling faint. By the time I received the massive bill at the reception desk, my hands were shaking, and I could feel the blood rushing into my head. My feet kept swaying my body back and forth in impatience to get out the door and into the cool air. $436 ...approximately. For a jobless college graduate, I was at a loss for words. What am I supposed to do? What if he has to go back?? What if it gets worse? Chris and I are supposed to keep constant watch to keep him from pulling out his stitches (that cast lasted about 45 seconds before he sent it flying). How can we keep track of that or make sure he doesn't hurt himself? We walked out the door in silence at 4 a.m.
The car ride home was an extremely quiet one. Chris battled the weather again. I tried my best to stay awake, but I kept nodding off with my head suddenly going slack to the left or right of the headrest, pulling me back awake. Still, I kept my hand in Nimbus's carrier. This time, he didn't care about getting out. He huddled against the far corner in fear and pain. I made sure the tips of my fingers were touching a paw or whiskers the whole ride home. I wanted him to know that I loved him and that I wasn't going anywhere. I never wanted any of this to happen. I had to put him through so much pain to heal him.
At about 5:30 a.m., I finally laid my head on my pillow. We moved Nimbus's cage into my bedroom against the wall where he is safe and secure. Chris went over the cage inch by inch and found nothing to cause such a cut. We removed the lava rock ledges, added extra chew toys, took down his hammock and lowered a wooden ledge to keep him as comfortable as possible as well as removing any strenuous activity. But, here's the kicker: For the next 10 days, my baby Nimbus - who loves everything about being a chinchilla from his dust bath to "wall surfing" to scampering across the couch - is not allowed outside of his cage or to take a dust bath. He must then go back to the vet, go under anesthesia again and get the stitches removed. How do you explain to an animal that you aren't being cruel or unfair or hateful toward them when you can't give them anything that might make them feel a little bit better because it could hurt them?? All these posts I've written about cage boredom and the importance of setting aside 1-2 hours a night of playtime for your chinchilla and I can't give that to my own. It breaks my heart to know that his is just as broken. I'm at a complete loss. If you could just see him... his sad little face... I'm so thankful he's still alive, but I don't know how to get through this without either him getting hurt or him never trusting me again. As he gets his energy back, it's only going to get much worse.
Finally, we arrived at the emergency vet at 2 in the morning. REACH is a beautiful facility located just off I-40. There are two waiting rooms, one for dogs and one for cats. We choose the cat waiting area since there were two dogs and their owners waiting for help. I filled out all the paperwork. And then, we waited as Nimbus scrabbled, chewed, barked and tried to dig his way out of the carrier. He did manage to succeed in pulling apart a few of the rubber strands. Holding my heavy winter coat over the carrier to protect him from the fluorescent lights, I hoped to comfort him. However, with my scratchy, nearly nonexistent voice from the respiratory infection, I must have sounded like an alien frog to him. Finally, we were called back.
I'm not sure why the nurse assistant brought out a scale for a cat, but she did. She blamed the scale for not reading the weight of Nimbus and malfunctioning, but I'm beginning to think that the scale didn't even pick up Nimbus's presence at all. He's supposed to weigh about a pound, but it's all fluff. Finally, she brought in a much more appropriate scale, jotted it down along with his injury details and left for the vet. Nimbus, eyes bright and ears alert, kept hopping on the examination table then back into the carrier as he made short adventures to explore this world. It was the last time I saw him as my beautiful, happy, perky Nimbus.
Dr. Gibson was our vet, and she immediately went for Nimbus to examine his foot. I prayed that she'd have better luck than I and that we could just move along with a diagnose. No such luck. As she wrestled with my chinchilla, I had to hold back tears and tell myself this was all for his benefit. He certainly didn't take it that way. Chirping. Barking. Biting. Struggling. A tiny painful squeak. It makes me sick to remember it. But, what else was she supposed to do? In the end, Nimbus escaped into the carrier, and Dr. Gibson announced that they needed to take an X-ray. To do so, anesthesia was needed. My heart jumped to my throat. To sign that paperwork and hover a pen over whether to agree to resuscitate Nimbus if necessary, I suddenly couldn't remember a more important decision in my lifetime. I checked Yes, and then wondered why. What type of traumatic stress would he go through in order to get him back from death? Wasn't all this pain enough? Was I so selfish that I couldn't let him go peacefully?
When they took my baby away, I collapsed against the cushioned bench with tears streaking my face. I hugged his bunny to my chest and prayed and prayed. Chris ushered me out into the waiting. By now it was 2:45 a.m. Chris kept making comments about their frog tank, the different magazines and if I wanted a cup of coffee before I just snapped at him. When I'm handling a crisis, I don't want anyone near me. If I'm in physical or emotional pain, you better give me a wide berth because I'll take your head off. If I ever have a child (which isn't in my life plan at the moment), God help the father if he so much as shows up in the room.
At 3:15, Dr. Gibson returned and her diagnose left me speechless. The X-rays showed no broken bones. It was a healthy chinchilla skeleton, the scariest image I've come across. First, there's a standard rodent skeleton but with the outline of his large velvety ears and his large teeth. I was terrified!
"So, he has a large laceration on his bicep that goes under and around his arm," said Dr. Gibson.
My jaw dropped. Chris didn't say a word. Our minds with buzzing with how on earth could he have gotten an injury like that? I could only think that there must be a sharp edge in his cage because how could Sansa have gotten a claw under his upper arm, a body part that is usually tucked into the fur of his chest... I still can't figure it out, and it torments me. How am I supposed to keep it from happening again if I don't know what IT is??
Dr. Gibson stitched Nimbus up while Chris and I waited and waited and prayed and prayed. I just wanted my baby to wake up. I couldn't stand the thought of him under the spell of drugged sleep. When we saw him again, I rushed into the room. There was my little chinchilla with large wet circles around his eyes and a fat cast on his right arm. I've never seen such a miserable creature. My heart broke at his pain and his misery. But, it only got worse. Nimbus is required to ingest medication twice a day. There is the antibacterial liquid every 12 hours but then there's the pain medication every 24 hours. Whether or not this stuff is good for his fragile digestive system, I can't tell you. I just had to trust them, and there's a big part of me that doesn't. It's not because they're bad vets or because it's a horrible facility. On the contrary, it is a beautiful place, and everyone we encountered was extremely helpful. I just don't trust my baby with anyone else but me. To watch this male assistant shove two syringes of medication into Nimbus's mouth while I held him down left me feeling faint. By the time I received the massive bill at the reception desk, my hands were shaking, and I could feel the blood rushing into my head. My feet kept swaying my body back and forth in impatience to get out the door and into the cool air. $436 ...approximately. For a jobless college graduate, I was at a loss for words. What am I supposed to do? What if he has to go back?? What if it gets worse? Chris and I are supposed to keep constant watch to keep him from pulling out his stitches (that cast lasted about 45 seconds before he sent it flying). How can we keep track of that or make sure he doesn't hurt himself? We walked out the door in silence at 4 a.m.
 |
| The little chinchilla cast that lasted 45 seconds |
The car ride home was an extremely quiet one. Chris battled the weather again. I tried my best to stay awake, but I kept nodding off with my head suddenly going slack to the left or right of the headrest, pulling me back awake. Still, I kept my hand in Nimbus's carrier. This time, he didn't care about getting out. He huddled against the far corner in fear and pain. I made sure the tips of my fingers were touching a paw or whiskers the whole ride home. I wanted him to know that I loved him and that I wasn't going anywhere. I never wanted any of this to happen. I had to put him through so much pain to heal him.
At about 5:30 a.m., I finally laid my head on my pillow. We moved Nimbus's cage into my bedroom against the wall where he is safe and secure. Chris went over the cage inch by inch and found nothing to cause such a cut. We removed the lava rock ledges, added extra chew toys, took down his hammock and lowered a wooden ledge to keep him as comfortable as possible as well as removing any strenuous activity. But, here's the kicker: For the next 10 days, my baby Nimbus - who loves everything about being a chinchilla from his dust bath to "wall surfing" to scampering across the couch - is not allowed outside of his cage or to take a dust bath. He must then go back to the vet, go under anesthesia again and get the stitches removed. How do you explain to an animal that you aren't being cruel or unfair or hateful toward them when you can't give them anything that might make them feel a little bit better because it could hurt them?? All these posts I've written about cage boredom and the importance of setting aside 1-2 hours a night of playtime for your chinchilla and I can't give that to my own. It breaks my heart to know that his is just as broken. I'm at a complete loss. If you could just see him... his sad little face... I'm so thankful he's still alive, but I don't know how to get through this without either him getting hurt or him never trusting me again. As he gets his energy back, it's only going to get much worse.
 |
| Nimbus's pain meds |
