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mad_andySo.
It's friday.
Which means that it's half nine and I'm barely done with the front of house areas - consulting rooms and waiting room. I'm up to my assfeathers in patients, and goddammit I am tired.
Finished work at 7.30 this morning, spent 20 mins chatting to my relief. Went home, got wheedled by Slay into taking him up to the garage so I could give him a lift to the bus stop after dropping his car off for a service. Went back via the surgery to pick up some catfood I'd forgotten to bring home with me, spent almost 40 mins chatting to my daytime colleagues.
went home, fed the cats, noticed that Zico was being all quiet again. Dammit. Went to check on the terrapins after feeding the frogs and giving a pair of non-feeder hatchlings something to eat. (They're eating now, huzzah!)
So I noticed something hanging from the tail of the male stinkpot. Dammit. Hauled him out.
Nasty looking prolapse of something pink from the cloaca. Which clearly hurt when I was examining it, because he's usually as good as gold and doesn't try to bite me.
*Groan*
Called the surgery. Hello yes it's me again...
Arranged to go in at half four. Marvellous.
Went to bed.
Woken up one hour later by the phone. I was less than polite. Still, after months and months of fucking around I finally got my Apo tickets (can you say SQUEE!!!), and they are nice and safe in the kitchen. Then I went back to bed.
Got up, noticed Zico had done the WORST SMELLING POO IN THE UNIVERSE by the front of his viv, and scooped it into a pot. Caught the turtle. Went to work.
Turns out the poor little sod has - wait for it - a prolapsed necrotic penis.
*Wince*
So as he's actually still eating and can pass faeces around this horrid bit of dead tissue he's booked for surgery next Thursday. Poor bastard is having his penis ligated and removed - which of course completely blows my plans for using him to breed with peg, the female stinkpot. Fuck.
Although there's no reason he can't live a full and happy life as a pet, just means he can't be used for breeding. Which is why I brought him home in the first place.
Anyway, surgery's going to be fun - he's tiny and only weighs 11 grams, not to mention the fact that trying to mask down terrapins is a hiding to nothing: if they don't want to breathe in, they can not only hold their breath for a ridiculously long time, they can also switch their system to a state of torpor and anaerobic respiration...
...which means it can be up to three fucking days before they need to take a breath.
*Headdesk*
So we'll probably go for intramuscular injection of a sedative agent, and a local anaesthetic. Gah. Still, AJ the vet is all fired up about it, she can't wait.
Looked at Zico's revolting faecal sample under the microscope. (Preparing faecal samples for that is utterly vile. You have to mash it up with saline and get it all liquid then skim the worst of it off the top and put it on a slide. I get all the good jobs.) No protozoa, no worm eggs or anything but apparently a hell of a lot of bacteria, more than you would expect.
And considering that Zico was at his brightest and feistiest toward the end of the course of Baytril, it looks like he's got a particularly nasty bacterial gastroenteritis.
Two weeks of oral antibiotics, kthx.
*Headdesk*
And Slay has just tected me to tell me that Oli didn't eat his mouse, just hid it under his cork bark hiding spot. Bastard.
Oh, and I might not be able to go to the Gamma ray fan party in Hamburg because I may have to work at the shop, because Steve has just walked out/handed in his resignation/jumped before he was pushed.
As a final topper, my usual monthly hormonal depression has kicked in. So although I'm actually OK (if a bit stressed) my emotions are telling me to off myself because life sucks so much. which isn't true at all, and if nothing else knowing that the next week or so is going to be filled with stupid emo-ness from a combination of hormones and emotions is fucking annoying.
And now I have to go see to my patients, so thank you and goodnight!
It's friday.
Which means that it's half nine and I'm barely done with the front of house areas - consulting rooms and waiting room. I'm up to my assfeathers in patients, and goddammit I am tired.
Finished work at 7.30 this morning, spent 20 mins chatting to my relief. Went home, got wheedled by Slay into taking him up to the garage so I could give him a lift to the bus stop after dropping his car off for a service. Went back via the surgery to pick up some catfood I'd forgotten to bring home with me, spent almost 40 mins chatting to my daytime colleagues.
went home, fed the cats, noticed that Zico was being all quiet again. Dammit. Went to check on the terrapins after feeding the frogs and giving a pair of non-feeder hatchlings something to eat. (They're eating now, huzzah!)
So I noticed something hanging from the tail of the male stinkpot. Dammit. Hauled him out.
Nasty looking prolapse of something pink from the cloaca. Which clearly hurt when I was examining it, because he's usually as good as gold and doesn't try to bite me.
*Groan*
Called the surgery. Hello yes it's me again...
Arranged to go in at half four. Marvellous.
Went to bed.
Woken up one hour later by the phone. I was less than polite. Still, after months and months of fucking around I finally got my Apo tickets (can you say SQUEE!!!), and they are nice and safe in the kitchen. Then I went back to bed.
Got up, noticed Zico had done the WORST SMELLING POO IN THE UNIVERSE by the front of his viv, and scooped it into a pot. Caught the turtle. Went to work.
Turns out the poor little sod has - wait for it - a prolapsed necrotic penis.
*Wince*
So as he's actually still eating and can pass faeces around this horrid bit of dead tissue he's booked for surgery next Thursday. Poor bastard is having his penis ligated and removed - which of course completely blows my plans for using him to breed with peg, the female stinkpot. Fuck.
Although there's no reason he can't live a full and happy life as a pet, just means he can't be used for breeding. Which is why I brought him home in the first place.
Anyway, surgery's going to be fun - he's tiny and only weighs 11 grams, not to mention the fact that trying to mask down terrapins is a hiding to nothing: if they don't want to breathe in, they can not only hold their breath for a ridiculously long time, they can also switch their system to a state of torpor and anaerobic respiration...
...which means it can be up to three fucking days before they need to take a breath.
*Headdesk*
So we'll probably go for intramuscular injection of a sedative agent, and a local anaesthetic. Gah. Still, AJ the vet is all fired up about it, she can't wait.
Looked at Zico's revolting faecal sample under the microscope. (Preparing faecal samples for that is utterly vile. You have to mash it up with saline and get it all liquid then skim the worst of it off the top and put it on a slide. I get all the good jobs.) No protozoa, no worm eggs or anything but apparently a hell of a lot of bacteria, more than you would expect.
And considering that Zico was at his brightest and feistiest toward the end of the course of Baytril, it looks like he's got a particularly nasty bacterial gastroenteritis.
Two weeks of oral antibiotics, kthx.
*Headdesk*
And Slay has just tected me to tell me that Oli didn't eat his mouse, just hid it under his cork bark hiding spot. Bastard.
Oh, and I might not be able to go to the Gamma ray fan party in Hamburg because I may have to work at the shop, because Steve has just walked out/handed in his resignation/jumped before he was pushed.
As a final topper, my usual monthly hormonal depression has kicked in. So although I'm actually OK (if a bit stressed) my emotions are telling me to off myself because life sucks so much. which isn't true at all, and if nothing else knowing that the next week or so is going to be filled with stupid emo-ness from a combination of hormones and emotions is fucking annoying.
And now I have to go see to my patients, so thank you and goodnight!
