Okay, bad.

[mad_andy]

Now, I've mentioned miasis, right? (Damn, must check the spelling of that fucking word.)

Maggots.

I fucking hate maggots.

Yeah, I know. Baby flies. Can't help themselves. They are what they are. (You would not believe how understanding some of my colleagues are. That or they know it bugs the crap out of me. Anyhoo.)



Okay. So I'm on the front desk, right? Reception, my least favourite duty in the whooooooooooooooooole wide world. This chap rocks up, looking a bit concerned; I put on my 'you can trust me, I know what I'm talking about reeeely I do' face and ask if I can help. We run through the facts - sick guinea pig, not registered, colour sex etc etc - and then I ask the fateful question.

Bear in mind at this moment I'm on a roll. I know what I'm doing, beastie is in the system, on the computer, the vets know it's there, I don't really have to think 'cos I'm in my comfort zone. Other clients can see that I Am Busy and are thus leaving me alone. I like this.

Then I ask the fateful question.

"What's wrong with X?" (No that isn't what it was called but you never know who might come across the journal, right? Client confidentiality. And stuff.)

"Maggots."

And a chill descends on the room...

My face gets a lot grimmer and my typing gets faster. People back away from the carrier. My colleague raises her voice slightly to cover the questions I'm asking and the answers I'm getting, because people don't like to hear about this sort of thing when Fluffy is in getting his boosters.

So I print off a consent form, nick the pig and rush backstage. (So to speak. Considering the different faces we all wear for the public it's a bloody accurate analogy.)

This animal is fucked. It is, to use the technical term, moribund. It's barely alive, breathing shallow and erratic, cold to the touch.

My colleagues are, in certain situations, utter stars. All I had to say was "Fly strike. Cold. Crap colour," and by the time I'd grabbed a towel and settled the pig on it there were heat pads, oxygen, gloves, forceps... all the stuff we needed to at least try and treat the poor little fucker.

I mean, yeah. It was pretty clear that this was not going to have a happy ending but the alternative was to stand there, thumbs up bums and brains in neutral, leaving the poor little bastard to suffer. I think not...

I've seen some cases in my time, but this... you couldn't tell what sex the beast was, because between his hind legs was nothing but a shredded, wet, stinking mass of rotting flesh that twisted with maggots. We thought he was one of the white patterned type, but no - the patches of white in his coat were solid blocks of fly eggs. Around his eyes, in his mouth, filling his ears.

We stopped trying to remove them at that point, wrapped him in bubble wrap, kept him warm and on oxygen, and waited for the vet to put him to sleep.

He didn't take much barbiturate to die. We wrapped him up in a towel and put him back in his carrier so the owner could bury him at home.

He'd discovered the strike last night. And bathed the pig in salt water to clean the maggots off, left him shut up in his hutch the next day thinking he'd take him to the vet when he got home from work the following day...

See? He cared - after a fashion - but ignorance ruled the day. And after all, it was only a guinea pig.

I had to work the next hour feeling dirty. Like I say I've seen a lot of strike but this one? This one affected me really badly. When I got home I stripped in the kitchen (probably giving any unsuspecting passers by a bit of an eyeful), threw my uniform in the machine and went straight up for a shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed but managed to refrain from taking the pumice stone to my soft bits; that way, my friends, lies madness. Scrub scrub, hot water followed by cold, until I felt clean enough to get out and try to cover the remembered smell with body lotion.

I smell great. My skin is all pink and clean but...

... I still feel dirty.

Comments

[nikki-tikki.livejournal.com]

I don't know what kind of courage it takes to do this kind of job. I know I'd never have been able to do that. This hardly is going to make you feel any better, but Andy, you're my idol.

I know that 'can't get the slime off' feeling. Not connected with maggots, but I know it. *sigh* Hope you feel better soon.

*HUGE HUGS*

[madandy.livejournal.com]

Courage? perhaps. All I know is that I hate to see anything suffer, and the urge to do something about it overrides the urge to run away screaming.

Mostly.

[nikki-tikki.livejournal.com]

This wasn't exactly what I meant. I meant... you see them little things die all the time. You see them hurt, see them suffer and often see them die... and you still continue with this job. I'd ever quit or go insane - I'm not that strong. You are absolutely amazing.

[madandy.livejournal.com]

I get you... and thanks.

But then, you're a teacher. I couldn't do that. I don't have the patience. I couldn't nurse people - I have nothing but admiration for those who do.

I guess I do what I can. Don't most of us, in our own way?

[stonefinder.livejournal.com]

Word, Nikki.

Fuck Andy, how long does an animal have to be infected for it to get that bad? And he only discovered it last night? Jesus Christ!

I never even heard of "fly strike" until I've read some of your entries. Don't these people look at their animals from time to time?