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Just Another Day In The Life
Dec. 28th, 2004 04:01 pmBeing a veterinarian means many things. It means puppies and kittens are a part of your day-to-day life, it means emotional rollercoasters and Christmas cards with little ferrets on sailboats, and it means never being burdened with the awful responsibility of a normal, sane, healthy pet. When your professional repertoire includes reptiles, especially demented pythons with poor hygeine and a don't-ask-don't-tell personal history, this also means your life includes such wonderful and colorful holidays as Let's Bathe The Snake Day.
If you're smart and organized, this day involves some significant preparation. If you're not, it instead involves a complex dance as you try to convince the snake to stay in the water, loop its midsection back in the sink as it tries to slither away over your husband's razor, convince it not to turn the water back on with its neck as it considers choking the faucet to death, and generally transform your world from 'One grubby snake with poorly shed skin, and a clean bathroom' to 'one shiny clean beautiful snake, and a grubby bathroom with poorly shed snake skin.'
The ritual cleansing is complete, though, and bathrooms are generally much easier to clean than snakes, having less tendency to struggle and absolutely no curiosity to speak of. And Orpheus, after having spent some time in his favorite hobby of impersonating a fashion accessory (now that he is no longer grubby, I am willing to allow him to wrap around my waist, though I do wish he wasn't so fond of resting his head on my backside), is comfortably curled up in the warm sunny part of his cage, apparently none the worse for wear.
My life is blessed in its strangeness.
If you're smart and organized, this day involves some significant preparation. If you're not, it instead involves a complex dance as you try to convince the snake to stay in the water, loop its midsection back in the sink as it tries to slither away over your husband's razor, convince it not to turn the water back on with its neck as it considers choking the faucet to death, and generally transform your world from 'One grubby snake with poorly shed skin, and a clean bathroom' to 'one shiny clean beautiful snake, and a grubby bathroom with poorly shed snake skin.'
The ritual cleansing is complete, though, and bathrooms are generally much easier to clean than snakes, having less tendency to struggle and absolutely no curiosity to speak of. And Orpheus, after having spent some time in his favorite hobby of impersonating a fashion accessory (now that he is no longer grubby, I am willing to allow him to wrap around my waist, though I do wish he wasn't so fond of resting his head on my backside), is comfortably curled up in the warm sunny part of his cage, apparently none the worse for wear.
My life is blessed in its strangeness.
