Author: Liz Dawes
share

Regular readers will recall that I live not in a house, but a menagerie

In fact, I’ve lost track of the precise number of critters that are under my roof (not to mention in the garden) – though I can say with some certainty that two of them are small, fabulous humans.  Anyway, with the inevitability of death and taxes comes occasional illness and its consequences.  This particular week, Gingy (ginger gerbil, favourite of Daughter) was seized for her daily cuddle, only for said child to find all manner of unspeakable gunk emanating from the furry rodent undercarriage.

Off we dashed to my now-BFF the vet, whose verdict was that Gingy was suffering from a serious infection of the womb and ovaries. Known to happen in gerbils, the only treatment is to remove them.

Daughter stood by my side, nodding wisely, as the vet explained the situation.  A serious and scientific child, she takes her care responsibilities very seriously, paying close attention to the diagnosis and treatment of each of our charges and their various ailments.  Son, bottom lip a-quiver, peers up at the vet with big eyes, saying only: “Gingy is very VERY poorly”.

Quite.

BFF-Vet reads the situation and does her best to give the wise advice, while not upsetting the smalls.

I can do the operation” she says, “but I will be honest, I have never done one before.  They are notoriously challenging because the infection is so bad and the area we are working in is so tiny.  Then there’s the anaesthetic risk which in gerbils is high.  I’m not saying there is no chance, but it’s very risky indeed and will cost in the region of £150.”

Ooooof.

Before I can speak, daughter pipes up: “So. Gingy has a very bad infection. There is a treatment, but it is risky and expensive.  Without the treatment she will die.  With the treatment, she might die, but she might not.”

“Yes” says the vet, evidently most impressed.

I, on the other hand, am less impressed. I know what’s coming.

“You would take the chance if it was Daisy, wouldn’t you?”  Daisy is our ancient spaniel, on whom an inordinate amount has been spent due to a veritable textbook full of ailments.  Daughter knows this.  “In fact, the only difference between Gingy and Daisy is that she is….smaller?”

Oh FFS.  There are days that I high five myself for raising such a child.  This is not one of them.  Infuriatingly I have no decent arguments by way of response as daughter is both logically and morally correct.  Gerbil hysterectomy it is then.

Vet wisely avoided eye-contact and wheeled Gingy off for immediate surgery. Daughter looked thoroughly pleased with herself.  Son looked big eyed and hopeful.  I look exactly what I was: outmanoeuvred and impoverished.

Against the odds, and to the utter astonishment of everyone present, Gingy sailed through the surgery, inhaled a course of antibiotics, and continues to live happily under Daughter’s desk right next to a pile of books.  If she stretches through the bars of her cage she can just about nibble the covers of a few of them, about which no one seems to mind one bit.  She’s earned it.

I am still outmanoeuvred and impoverished, but basking in moral abundance.

No, YOU shut up.