Showing posts with label raccoons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label raccoons. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Purrl Survives the Night--Part Three
I rushed downstairs early this morning to check my raccoon kit.
He was sleeping soundly atop his towels. I was ecstatic to see that he had made it through the night. Perhaps we hadn't rescued him too late at all.
"Come on," I cooed. "You need your breakfast."
I put the titty bottle in the microwave as he crawled up to my neck, my other hand stabilizing his tiny butt. After thirty seconds, I took out the bottle and put the nipple to his lips. Though he didn't open his mouth on his own, the jaw moved with more suppleness--not as dried shut as last night. I pried open his mouth, inserted the nipple and squirted the fluid into his mouth. This time, the mouth opened and closed, almost as though he was trying to chew. I remembered that with Rustle, I squirted once and paused to let him swallow and get his bearings on being force-fed. Then, I squirted again and waited. It took a while to feed Rustle this way, but at least I hadn't overwhelmed him with the process.
Coffee in hand, Edgar came over to watch the nursing routine. I looked up and smiled grandly. He said, "Some birthday present, huh? You always said you wanted to raise another raccoon, and here you have him. Hey, we didn't check to see what sex it is." So, I held the kit while Edgar checked under the tail. "I believe we have a little female here."
"Oh," I said. "Well, then I can't call her ''Rustlelina' then. I've been thinking: let's name her Purrl, after Purrlicue (Purrlicue was our twenty-year-old cat that died last year). The kit was calling to us with not quite a purr but with more like a chirping, twittering sound, but it sort of sounded like a purr. But I'd like to honor Purrl, too, by naming this raccoon after her.
Edgar smiled. "Purrl it is." He watched me giving Purrl her bottle. "You're in heaven, aren't you. Well, again, you've got your work cut out for you. Looks like this is going to be The Summer of Purrl."
If it's anything like The Summer of Rustle, we're all in for a treat."
"You betcha!" I said.
Purr Lives--Part Two
I whisked the raccoon kit downstairs, opened the freezer, and took out the tin of KMR or Kitten Milk Replacer. I sifted through another cabinet and found a new pet bottle still inside its original container. Then, I got out a shaker for making mixed drinks, read the directions and proceeded to make the kit a long-overdue supper.
As I was mixing the KMR with water, I noticed how the kit almost looked dried up. His fur was icky, and his skin seemed almost adhered to his body--like no space between the skin and the body proper. He was extrememly dehydrated. His attitude revealed his lack of moisture, too, because he acted as though he couldn't see, and it didn't help that one eye was pasted shut with eye matter. So, even before I tried to feed him, I got paper towels, wet them with warm water, and began stroking him all over. My towels rapidly turned yellow--probably from his sitting in his own waste for such a long time. I think the washing also helped stimulate him back to reality a bit, for he began to move his head slightly, almost as though he was analyzing his surroundings.
I out the KMR solution into a bottle and put it to his mouth. When I had done that with my first raccoon kit, he immediately began sucking on it. This kit, however, was in dire shape: he didn't even know that there was a nipple bottle at his lips and that milk was running down his chin.
A chill went through my body: had I only thought, when I first heard the noise in the fan, that some critter needed rescuing, he might not be so worn out and dehydrated. The kit may have lost his suck reflex. Losing a suck reflex is not a good prognosis for a baby animal. Still, I was determined he should have liquids.
I put a fingernail between his upper and lower jaw and pried the lower jaw loose. It was like a creaky chest that hadn't been opened for years. When I had it open, I stuck in the nipple and squirted the good milk into his mouth. It dribbled out the side and down his chest.
I was worried. Was he so far gone that he couldn't even swallow? This wasn't looking good. "Edgar! He needs fluids. He's all dried up--can't even drink anything."
Edgar went for the fluids and gave him five cc's under the skin in two places. I had already washed his eyes and put opthalmic ointment in them. But I had to try to get him to participate in the feeding. I could jam as much liquid into his mouth as possible, but if he couldn't swallow, all my attempts at saving him would be lost.
I warmed the KMR in the microwave, put the nipple to his lips--nothing. He just hung limp in my hands: too far gone. I cursed myself for ignoring his cries the previous day. I tried again--squirting the liquid into the back of his mouth. This time I saw his mouth move, and as another squirt went into him, a tiny, broad tongue lapped at the juice. He wasn't sucking, but he was licking the fluid.
For an hour I worked with him, Edgar helping to steady him in my arms. His head was almost as long as his body, and he kept twisting it away from me as though he didn't like bing forced to drink. After half the bottle was empty, I squeezed his belly: it was taut.
I held him against my chest, and he made a feeble attempt to crawl up to my neck. I helped him--shades of Rustle dancing through my head--and he made it to my hairline where he burrowed his head. While he lay on my shoulder, with one hand steadying him, I made him a nice raccoon nest out of a cardboard box and towels. Then I heated in the microwave a sack of birdseed that people use on sore body parts and wrapped it in a towel.
I put him in the box on top of the heated pouch, and he fell right to sleep. My only worry was that we had rescued him too late and that he wouldn't survive the night.
As I was mixing the KMR with water, I noticed how the kit almost looked dried up. His fur was icky, and his skin seemed almost adhered to his body--like no space between the skin and the body proper. He was extrememly dehydrated. His attitude revealed his lack of moisture, too, because he acted as though he couldn't see, and it didn't help that one eye was pasted shut with eye matter. So, even before I tried to feed him, I got paper towels, wet them with warm water, and began stroking him all over. My towels rapidly turned yellow--probably from his sitting in his own waste for such a long time. I think the washing also helped stimulate him back to reality a bit, for he began to move his head slightly, almost as though he was analyzing his surroundings.
I out the KMR solution into a bottle and put it to his mouth. When I had done that with my first raccoon kit, he immediately began sucking on it. This kit, however, was in dire shape: he didn't even know that there was a nipple bottle at his lips and that milk was running down his chin.
A chill went through my body: had I only thought, when I first heard the noise in the fan, that some critter needed rescuing, he might not be so worn out and dehydrated. The kit may have lost his suck reflex. Losing a suck reflex is not a good prognosis for a baby animal. Still, I was determined he should have liquids.
I put a fingernail between his upper and lower jaw and pried the lower jaw loose. It was like a creaky chest that hadn't been opened for years. When I had it open, I stuck in the nipple and squirted the good milk into his mouth. It dribbled out the side and down his chest.
I was worried. Was he so far gone that he couldn't even swallow? This wasn't looking good. "Edgar! He needs fluids. He's all dried up--can't even drink anything."
Edgar went for the fluids and gave him five cc's under the skin in two places. I had already washed his eyes and put opthalmic ointment in them. But I had to try to get him to participate in the feeding. I could jam as much liquid into his mouth as possible, but if he couldn't swallow, all my attempts at saving him would be lost.
I warmed the KMR in the microwave, put the nipple to his lips--nothing. He just hung limp in my hands: too far gone. I cursed myself for ignoring his cries the previous day. I tried again--squirting the liquid into the back of his mouth. This time I saw his mouth move, and as another squirt went into him, a tiny, broad tongue lapped at the juice. He wasn't sucking, but he was licking the fluid.
For an hour I worked with him, Edgar helping to steady him in my arms. His head was almost as long as his body, and he kept twisting it away from me as though he didn't like bing forced to drink. After half the bottle was empty, I squeezed his belly: it was taut.
I held him against my chest, and he made a feeble attempt to crawl up to my neck. I helped him--shades of Rustle dancing through my head--and he made it to my hairline where he burrowed his head. While he lay on my shoulder, with one hand steadying him, I made him a nice raccoon nest out of a cardboard box and towels. Then I heated in the microwave a sack of birdseed that people use on sore body parts and wrapped it in a towel.
I put him in the box on top of the heated pouch, and he fell right to sleep. My only worry was that we had rescued him too late and that he wouldn't survive the night.
Precious Purrl--Part One
No one could have given me a more precious birthday present. Sent from the insightful goddess in the clouds, I received my gift with open arms and a gigantuan smile. To hell with diamonds, donuts, dollars, and any other gift starting with a "d". This was a moment to cherish. My prize is sitting in the kitchen right now, and I pass by it every few minutes just to stop and stare--and to marvel.
Last night I had disrobed before taking my evening shower. Again this chirping noise was coming from the ceiling fan--for the second night. I stood, naked, underneath it, squinting at the grates but could detect nothing. I yelled, "Hey! Who's up there? You're not supposed to be in our attic." No answer. So, I turned to step in the shower. But, just as I opened the door, the sound twittered even louder. There was no mistake: a wild animal was up in the ceiling fan. I could not fathom how an animal could have gotten into the fan, but regardless of my perplexity, something was definitely up there.
"Edgar!" I yelled, stark-standing in the archway of the living room. "Some animal is caught in the ceiling fan! We have to save it." He rolled his eyes and dislodged himself from his comfy, over-sized chair.
He said, "How am I going to walk in the attic because of all the insulation we had blown in there?"
"Use boards," I said. "Place one board, crawl on it, place another, walk on it, and pick up the first one and lay that one down--like we did for Lowell when we took him to the TV station. (Lowell refused to walk on slippery tile, so we had to lay sections of carpeting down before him as he walked on stage).
While I got dressed again, Edgar drove to the farm, retrieved two boards, and with my help, hoisted himself and the boards into the attic. But when Edgar got to the guts of the ceiling fan, all he found was a closed metal box with a three-inch tube going from it to the wall of the house. Out of breath, Edgar backed out of the attic. We re-grouped in the bathroom, staring up at the ceiling fan from which issued the sounds of desperate chirping. "The poor thing," I said. "I've been hearing that noise yesterday and this evening, but I never thought that an animal could be trapped up there. Yeah, I thought a critter was in the attic, but I didn't think it was caught there. I'm certain it can't get out: why would it stay in that one place for two days--just chirping all the time?
We developed a new plan: get a ladder and remove the fan from the bathroom. I raced downstairs for a ladder while Edgar found the right-sized screwdriver. As he removed the facing of the fan, held on by two long screws, I stood ready with a cardboard box and Edgar's heavy work gloves. We didn't know if, when he took off the cover, what kind of animal--young or adult--would drop out of the ceiling. I held the box like a fireman with a net.
Carefully, Edgar drew away the cover. I held the box underneath it, but nothing fell out. I lowered the box. "What the hell? Where is it?" After dismantling the electric wires, Edgar poked his bare hand into the fan's guts, but he found nothing. Yet the chirping was louder.
He said, getting off the ladder, "I'm gonna have to get a wrench to pull off the fan gizmo. It's definitely in there somewhere, but I don't see it." Minutes later the fan was off. Still, no animal.
I took Edgar's place on the ladder, which I had repositioned, and there, in the exhaust pipe, I could see a body on the other side of the plastic flapper or valve that opens when the fan works. How in the world an animal got inside that three-inch pipe, we may never know. But it was there and had been there for at least two days, perhaps even more. "It's behind this thing!" I yelled. I can only push it a little--not enough room to get it out. You'll have to pull out that flapper-thingy."
So, Edgar crawled up the ladder, pulled the flap out of the tube In that instant, a little head appeared.
It was a raccoon kit!
Edgar laughed as he took it out of the pipe and handed it to me. "I can't believe it! Right around the same time as we rescued Rustle--this time in May of 2005. How's that for a birthday present! You've got another raccoon to raise."
I was speechless with joy. I don't remember who I was telling recently about the summer of 2005 when I raised a baby raccoon. I told them it was the best summer ever and explained how I and Rustle played games on the front porch, went for golf cart rides, and how he helped me do chores by riding around on the back of my neck all day--even in the stifling-hot weather. I had told the person that I'd give anything to be able to do it all over again.
And now I had my chance!
Last night I had disrobed before taking my evening shower. Again this chirping noise was coming from the ceiling fan--for the second night. I stood, naked, underneath it, squinting at the grates but could detect nothing. I yelled, "Hey! Who's up there? You're not supposed to be in our attic." No answer. So, I turned to step in the shower. But, just as I opened the door, the sound twittered even louder. There was no mistake: a wild animal was up in the ceiling fan. I could not fathom how an animal could have gotten into the fan, but regardless of my perplexity, something was definitely up there.
"Edgar!" I yelled, stark-standing in the archway of the living room. "Some animal is caught in the ceiling fan! We have to save it." He rolled his eyes and dislodged himself from his comfy, over-sized chair.
He said, "How am I going to walk in the attic because of all the insulation we had blown in there?"
"Use boards," I said. "Place one board, crawl on it, place another, walk on it, and pick up the first one and lay that one down--like we did for Lowell when we took him to the TV station. (Lowell refused to walk on slippery tile, so we had to lay sections of carpeting down before him as he walked on stage).
While I got dressed again, Edgar drove to the farm, retrieved two boards, and with my help, hoisted himself and the boards into the attic. But when Edgar got to the guts of the ceiling fan, all he found was a closed metal box with a three-inch tube going from it to the wall of the house. Out of breath, Edgar backed out of the attic. We re-grouped in the bathroom, staring up at the ceiling fan from which issued the sounds of desperate chirping. "The poor thing," I said. "I've been hearing that noise yesterday and this evening, but I never thought that an animal could be trapped up there. Yeah, I thought a critter was in the attic, but I didn't think it was caught there. I'm certain it can't get out: why would it stay in that one place for two days--just chirping all the time?
We developed a new plan: get a ladder and remove the fan from the bathroom. I raced downstairs for a ladder while Edgar found the right-sized screwdriver. As he removed the facing of the fan, held on by two long screws, I stood ready with a cardboard box and Edgar's heavy work gloves. We didn't know if, when he took off the cover, what kind of animal--young or adult--would drop out of the ceiling. I held the box like a fireman with a net.
Carefully, Edgar drew away the cover. I held the box underneath it, but nothing fell out. I lowered the box. "What the hell? Where is it?" After dismantling the electric wires, Edgar poked his bare hand into the fan's guts, but he found nothing. Yet the chirping was louder.
He said, getting off the ladder, "I'm gonna have to get a wrench to pull off the fan gizmo. It's definitely in there somewhere, but I don't see it." Minutes later the fan was off. Still, no animal.
I took Edgar's place on the ladder, which I had repositioned, and there, in the exhaust pipe, I could see a body on the other side of the plastic flapper or valve that opens when the fan works. How in the world an animal got inside that three-inch pipe, we may never know. But it was there and had been there for at least two days, perhaps even more. "It's behind this thing!" I yelled. I can only push it a little--not enough room to get it out. You'll have to pull out that flapper-thingy."
So, Edgar crawled up the ladder, pulled the flap out of the tube In that instant, a little head appeared.
It was a raccoon kit!
Edgar laughed as he took it out of the pipe and handed it to me. "I can't believe it! Right around the same time as we rescued Rustle--this time in May of 2005. How's that for a birthday present! You've got another raccoon to raise."
I was speechless with joy. I don't remember who I was telling recently about the summer of 2005 when I raised a baby raccoon. I told them it was the best summer ever and explained how I and Rustle played games on the front porch, went for golf cart rides, and how he helped me do chores by riding around on the back of my neck all day--even in the stifling-hot weather. I had told the person that I'd give anything to be able to do it all over again.
And now I had my chance!
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