Early last week, Wilma got her foot caught under a ramp in her cage. She screamed – a lot. TW finally was able to release her from the ramp, but not before Wilma had been hanging upside down by one foot.
The foot — it was an ugly, bloody, swollen mess.
I called around to find a vet who would be able to see her quickly and had the distinct displeasure of speaking to one very rude receptionist before I found the very nice people at Midwest Exotic Animal Hospital.
The doctor who saw Wilma has two prairie dogs of her own, how fabulous is that. The doctor who saw Wilma prescribed some antibiotic, some painkiller, and will see her again next week to determine whether she needs to have some toes amputated (probably.) In the meantime, the vet said… keep her from being too active, keep her from climbing, keep her with her siblings.
How the hell were we going to do that? Three prairie dogs in a single level environment? We tried some tall, large rubbermaid bins. Wilma escaped quickly. We tried the bathtub. Wilma escaped, not quickly but picture her using her siblings for leverage. Yea, that wasn’t going to work.
So Michelle and I bought a big trash bin for the three to sleep in together at night and when nobody is available to watch them in the playpen (the playpen with bars that Wilma got herself stuck between a couple of days ago while trying to escape and the playpen Pebbles, the really fat lazy one, has figured out how to escape from now.)
Wilma, in particular, does not love this trash bin. The other girls will happily bed down as soon as they’re placed inside. Wilma… not so much.
I’m pretty sure she’s going to launch herself out of the bin, at 3am, and wake me up by biting my toes.
She doesn’t look like she’s in pain, does she?