My mother always said that from the time I
could walk, I’d go where angels feared to tread. While that’s not entirely
accurate, there’ve been many times when it’s been much closer to the truth than
not.
Along with that “personality trait” came
its close partner-in-crime, an insatiable curiosity about things. Lots of
things. Maybe too many things. Maybe I
should’ve been born a cat.
In elementary school, years before my days
of peddling Girl Scout cookies, I went door-to-door selling Christmas cards. I
had no apprehension whatsoever about asking people to buy my wares. I wasn’t
shy and I wasn’t scared. The money was a
side benefit.
As the president of the Future Homemakers
of America club in high school, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder and went
hand-to-hand in a milking contest. To paint the picture, my competition, the
president of the Future Farmers of America, was raised on a dairy farm. I, on
the other hand, always lived in town, just down the street from the school and
the pool and the library. I’d seen lots of cows before, of course, but the milk
at my house usually came from the corner grocery store.
As an adult, my curiosity won out when I
gathered my courage and walked the 12-feet of white-hot coals at a Tony
Robbins’ event.
I’ve held snakes and alligators and
tarantulas because I just wanted to try it. However, last summer I met my match
and have taken somewhat of a sabbatical from having to touch everything.
It all started out so innocently. I had
just left a doctor’s appointment and was celebrating good news. There was
sunshine and blue skies and it was just a beautiful day in every way.
As I crossed the street to the bus stop, I
spotted a most unusual site, more unusual than our normal “unusual” things we
see in downtown Seattle. Sitting there as if it were the most normal thing on
earth, was a woman holding a little bitty ferret…wearing an itsy bitsy leash
around its teeny weeny neck.
I grew up with cats and dogs and the
occasional fish. I even caught a wild
chipmunk one time and kept it for a pet until it passed on to chipmunk heaven a
year or so later. I had a precious little lamb, a chicken and a white mouse
named, creatively enough, Templeton (from Charlotte’s Web, of course). But
ferrets? The closest I’d ever come until this one fateful day was observing a
friend’s - from across the room.
However, something about the little leash
on that young ferret’s neck just really piqued my interest that day. I couldn’t
help myself. Before I thought twice (or logically), I found myself in
conversation aiming straight toward trouble.
“Your little ferret is so cute,” I told
her. Duh. Yeah. Anything the size of a beanie baby with a tiny leash on its
neck would be cute.
“Is it okay if I pet it?” Hmm. Thinking
back, maybe just one other little question should’ve gone through my brain and
out of my mouth at that moment. Guess which one.
“Oh yes, you can pet her. She’s as gentle
and sweet as an angel,” the little rodent’s totally-enamored owner told me. Ok,
it was a hot day, I was totally drinking the koolaid and then she added to seal
the deal, “In fact, she’s eats at the table with my children.”
Okay, any clear-thinking, intelligent
person, especially one who has raised two daughters, would’ve probably spent
more than a half a second mulling that one over. But no. Before she’d barely
finished the sentence, my hand made its way to the top of the little angel’s
head.
As I petted, the proud owner told me more
stories. The dear thing all but took ballet lessons and played with Barbie
dolls and had tea parties with her children. Yep, feeling more comfortable (or
hypnotized), I petted it some more.
As I went in for the approach the third
time, I felt like this little critter and I had bonded. She might ask if she
could come home and spend the night with Auntie Beth. And then, quicker than
you can say canine teeth lacerations, she obviously had a change of heart.
Before I realized what was happening, the
little darling had turned on me and was biting the heck out of my wrist.
“Oh my gosh, she’s biting me!” I
half-yelled, half-cried in disbelief. The harder I tried to pull my arm back,
the more desperately she clamped down. I was shaking my hand in a frenzy trying
to break free from the little wingless vampire as her owner tried to pry her
off.
“She’s had her parvo shot and her rabies
shot and she’s been spayed,” the woman emphatically told me. “See?” She stretched out Miss Fangs and showed
me the scar on her tummy.
At that moment, however, I didn’t care
about medical history! All I was thinking
was “don’t faint, Beth; you don’t
have rabies, you aren’t going to lose your arm, you just got good news from the
doctor, God wouldn’t let you die on the streets of Seattle right after that…”
And then I saw a man I hadn’t noticed
before. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t travelling but he did have a suitcase. The
next thing I knew, he’d pulled out an alcohol pad like a nurse uses when you
get a shot.
“Whoa!” my mind was whirling but I
remember thinking, “Now where in the world did Dr. Kildare come from?”
I was trying to take deep breaths because
who knew what might happen next! I turned around and voila! The little leashed
ferret and her proud owner had skeedaddled. Missing in action. AWOL.
I needed something to drink. I needed to
get out of the hot sun. I needed medical advice. Stat. I made my way to the pharmacist in the drug
store right next to the bus stop.
I showed the good druggist my
still-bleeding wrist.
“Oh, you’ll probably be okay,” she told
me. Um, she could’ve read a Mayo Clinic journal to me verbatim about all the
reasons I had no reason to worry but all I heard was one little word: probably. Something about “probably” being
okay was about as comforting as “she’s had all her shots” (meanwhile Little
Elvira was probably on her way to the ferret dentist to have my blood cleaned
off her teeth) and “here, I just happen to have some alcohol pads in my pocket”!
I’ve tried to think the best of why this Good Samaritan conveniently had
alcohol pads at the bus stop.
We live near a big city. Anything can and
might just happen.
I took the ferry back to my safe little
island where I’m used to seeing dogs and cats and even the occasional pet bird
on its owner’s shoulder. Sans leash.
I made it to my doctor’s office where he
and his nurse tried not to laugh as they prepped me for my tetanus shot as I
told the story.
Since that day, I’m been sticking to coals
and cows and the selling of Christmas cards.
I’m just gonna keep my hands to myself.
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