Zebra Lunch

We took the squeaker and the pipsqueak to the zoo last week.

The squeaker was not very cooperative about eating breakfast, so before long, he seemed tired and hungry as we wandered around looking at the animals.

But he perked up when we got to the zebras. At the Maryland Zoo, the zebras are housed with the rhinos and ostriches in an exhibit meant to look like a watering hole on the plains of Africa.

The squeaker stared and stared at the zebras, who were standing around towards the back of the exhibit. Even when his papa gently prodded him, the squeaker continued to stare with a level of attention he had lacked so far in our trip.

So his papa asked, "What are you looking at so intently?"

And the squeaker replied, "I'm waiting for the predator to show up!"

Yes, he really did think that lions or some other fierce beasties were about to burst upon the scene.

By the way, it seems that my blog is still ALL SQUEAKER ALL THE TIME. This is because while the pipsqueak has grown very fat and very charming, he is still just a baby, and he doesn't really entertain us much yet. He is very jolly and happy -- he's so ticklish that when I undress him to give him a bath, he giggles the entire time. I am sure there will be pipsqueak stories soon.

Failed Moral Lesson

The squeaker was flying around, being Daisy, and he told me that he was breathing fire all over the village.

“A village full of little children and mamas and papas and grandmas and everyone??” I asked. (A heavy-handed moral question, I know, but give me a break – I’ve been reading The Philosopher’s Apprentice, in which a failed Ph.D. candidate in philosophy takes on the job of trying to instill a moral compass in a teenage girl who lacks a conscience.)

“Yes!” he said.

“But why breathe fire on the innocent little children?”

“Because they’ll grow up to be knights who want to slay me,” he replied.

I was struck by the astuteness of this response.

“But Daisy,” I said, “it would be very hard to be sure that you get everyone, and anyone who is left will definitely grow up to be a knight who wants to slay you if you burn down his village.” (I really need to stop listening to so much NPR.)

Daisy paused in mid-flight to consider this.

“Maybe a better approach would be to invite all of the little children to your dragon cave to eat popcorn and watch a movie, and you can show them that you aren’t really an evil dragon, and that they shouldn’t be afraid of you. Then you can all be friends,” I said brightly.

“That’s a great idea,” he agreed. He thought some more about it, and then said earnestly, “or I could just eat them.”

“Hmm. I guess you could,” I sighed.

Dragon Poison

Because of the cat bite, the squeaker had to take an antibiotic twice a day for 10 days. It was a liquid medication.

On the first day, he submitted to the initial dose willingly. Not so with the second dose. I had to pin him down, holding all four limbs, and force the spoon in his mouth. He coughed and sputtered and gagged. When I released him, he ran off shrieking. It was an ugly scene.

But for the next dose, inspiration came to me.

“Daisy the Dragon,” I said to him, “I am an evil sorceress. But I want to help you anyway.” (The treacherous evil sorceress figures in many of his role-playing games. She’s kind of a patchwork of various villains and bad guys in the stories and movies that he knows.)

I offered him an M&M. “Take this. It will make you invisible.”

The squeaker eagerly gobbled the M&M. “Aha!” I shouted. “I tricked you! It was really poison!”

Then Daisy collapsed to the floor, at which point the squeaker began his voice-over: “Daisy fell to the dusty earth, her huge wings beating the ground and her scales glistening in the sunlight...”

“And then suddenly,” I interrupted, continuing the story, “Daisy’s sister Raven appeared, her dragon form silhouetted against the sky. She was bringing...”

“An antidote!” cried the squeaker.

And he took the medicine.

I am not so sure about the positive long-term impact of this scenario, but yesterday was the final day of the medication, and every dose was as easy as pie for the sorceress.

Weekend Catastrophe

The squeaker was attacked by our outdoor cat.

The cat has been hanging around for the last year or so. We live on 9 acres in a rural area, so there are farms all around us. When the cat arrived, we treated her like a barn cat. She stays outside, and we feed her. The squeaker likes her a lot. It’s a way for him to have a “pet” without us having an indoor animal. Not that we’re really opposed to having an indoor animal, but my husband is very allergic, and we think the squeaker is, too, so it’s not really an option.

Anyway, the cat is spayed, so we know someone cared for her as a pet in the past. She’s also been declawed, which created a bit of an ethical dilemma for us. We weren’t sure how she’d fare outdoors with no front claws. It would seem to put her at the mercy of other, better-armed beasties. And yet she seems to do just fine.

I myself don’t really like cats, and I haven’t been thrilled to have her around. She poops in the flower gardens and she’s always trying to sneak into the house. She knows I don’t really like her, and we generally keep our distance from one another. Still, I’ve tolerated her because we have rodents that eat our cars (I’m not kidding – we’ve spent at least $2000 so far on repairs because of chewed fuel lines and brake lines), and she does eat the mice and chipmunks.

So on Saturday, while my husband was out of town, I bundled up the baby, put the squeaker’s shoes on, and headed down to the mailbox. While I got the mail, the squeaker wandered around, playing in the dirt and chasing the cat. As I was walking back up the driveway, I could see him chasing the cat with a branch full of leaves. He’s little and slow, so I don’t think he really poses any danger to her. But I obviously don’t want him to torment animals, so I told him to knock it off and that he needed to be more gentle with the kitty. He dropped the branch and ran off.

I told him we were going inside because it was really too cool out for playing outside. He was so happy to be outside that this prompted much wailing and crying. On the sidewalk just outside the door, I walked past the squeaker and told him to come on. Still crying, he trailed along about 15 feet behind me.

Suddenly, he REALLY started to cry and scream. I figured he was ratcheting up his tantrum because we were almost to the door, but when I turned to look at him, he was clutching his leg and screaming, “She bit me! She bit me!” And I saw the cat fly past him and into the woods. “Something stung me! Something got me!” he yelled.

There are times when I feel that motherhood is a series of extremely difficult tests – superhuman stamina, one’s ability to stay awake and coherent for many more hours than a normal person, the ability to make a balanced meal out of random things in the fridge, patience in the face of a screaming baby or a furious toddler...

Anyway, this was one of those times in which I was tested: can I stay calm and clear-headed when my small child is hurting and afraid?

The short answer is no, I can’t, so I failed the test miserably. Knowing that the cat has not had a rabies vaccine, I freaked out. The squeaker had sweatpants on, so I pulled them off and examined his leg. On the back of his thigh, just above the knee, there were two inch-long lines oozing blood and two round purple marks that looked suspiciously like puncture wounds. My first thought was that I needed to get him somewhere where someone could find out if he’d been exposed to rabies. So I called my in-laws and my parents (and my poor husband, helplessly aboard a bus on his way home from NYC), and, in some hysteria, made plans to take the squeaker to a health clinic.

At some point while getting the baby changed and dressed and into his car seat, it occurred to me that this wasn’t really a very useful thing to do. I know there isn’t really a rabies test that anyone can do – that’s why people take the series of shots instead. And yet the knowledge that he could have been exposed to rabies made me frantic to do something – anything! – to protect him. Plus, I knew that animal bites are very prone to infection.

Nonetheless, I stopped my frantic preparations to get to the clinic. I took him into the bathroom and cleaned the wounds carefully. I unbundled the pipsqueak. And then I went out and took a look at the cat.

She seemed to be acting quite normal. I took her food and water, and she seemed friendly.

Sunday, we called the pediatrician. Apparently, cat bites have a high infection rate, particularly if there are puncture wounds. So the squeaker is on an antibiotic now. We’re also watching the cat. Deep down, I don’t believe she has rabies. Since she’s previously had veterinary care, it’s very likely she’s been vaccinated, though it’s hard to say how long ago. Plus, she doesn’t seem to be acting weird.

And yet I can’t figure out why she would have bitten the squeaker. He does tease her sometimes, but I am quite sure he wasn’t doing so at that moment. Maybe his crying agitated her? I don’t know. It seems so out of character that it does make me wonder. So I guess we’ll watch her carefully for the next week or so.

Anyway, this made for a very exciting weekend. Sigh.