Gramps used to say it wasn't how big the dog was that determined the outcome of a fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.  Gramps liked to see a bit of spunk in someone.  He was always one who cheered on the underdog.

Gramps would have loved Little Ernie.

Back in the early 80's when exotic pets were starting to become popular, most veterinarians and their staff had little experience with them.  We referred a lot of guinea pigs, snakes and hedgehogs to the specialists in the fields.  We began to buy textbooks on exotic pet medicine, and attend seminars and lectures on their peculiarities.  So when Mrs. Garret called and requested "just a toenail trim" for her son's new iguana, we felt comfortable that we could handle this simple procedure.  After all, we trim the toenails on dogs and cats every day.  How much harder could a reptile be?

I had not been working as a veterinary assistant very long at the time.  I was eager to learn all that I could about any kind of animal that came in the door.  I was more than willing to assist the veterinarian when she worked with the iguana, something a few of my coworkers raised their eyebrows over.

When Little Ernie and his young owner walked into the waiting room and sat down, I didn't see the pint-sized patient at first.  Then I noticed him clinging to the front of the child's sweatshirt.  The boy sat stiffly in his chair, eyes wide and frightened.  I didn't realize at the time that he was cautiously afraid of his own pet.

I gently unhooked Little Ernie's toenails from the boy's shirt and cradled him in my hands.  I invited the boy to follow me into the examination room where the doctor was waiting. Mother and son firmly shook their heads.  They would just sit right here and wait, Mrs. Garret said.  Had I possessed a little more experience in dealing with pet owners, little warning bells would have started to ring about this time.

Little Ernie must have been fresh from his native land, as he was anything but a trophy specimen.  Small and lithe, he came willingly with me as I carried him into the first room.  I set him on the metal table while the veterinarian pulled open a drawer and picked up her toenail trimmers.  Little Ernie sat quietly, turning his little head back and forth, making eye contact with each of us.  Looking back, I realize the look was something like sizing up the opponent before the battle began.

Our volunteer helper, Linda, stepped into the room to observe.  She stood close to the door, not at all comfortable being in the same room with a cold-blooded patient.  She watched him warily.  Another vet tech, Sharon, also stepped in to assist.  She cooed, "Oh, how pretty!  I've never seen one this close up before!"  She gingerly stuck out a finger and stroked Little Ernie's side.

Without warning, Little Ernie raised himself up on his long toes, his body swelling with indignation at such familiarity.  His mouth opened and he exhaled an evil hiss.  His neck flared wide as his tiny body shuddered with rage.

If his display was an attempt at intimidation, it worked very well.  Linda made such an abrupt backwards exit from the room that it appeared as if she were standing there one moment and had vanished the next.  Sharon beat a quick retreat too, shutting the door behind her.  It was just the veterinarian and myself left to face Little Ernie's fury.

The next thing I knew, I felt a stinging slap across my hand.  The iguana pulled his tail back and let loose another whip-like smack across the veterinarian's face, knocking her glasses askew.  Ernie turned to face both of us head-on as he shivered and hissed again.

Like I said before, I had no experience with angry reptiles, but I'd seen plenty of fractious cats calmed by laying a towel over them.  I picked one up from the shelf and tossed it over Little Ernie.  As quick as the tantrum started, it was over.  There was no movement under the cloth.  About six inches of Ernie's tail was visible, and it wasn't moving either.

Much relieved, the veterinarian and I looked at each other.  So far, the only thing we had accomplished was to upset the patient and two assistants.  There was no use in calling for reinforcements from the remaining staff members.  They had all suddenly found something more pressing to do in other parts of the hospital.  The doctor took a deep breath, and reached under the towel.  She hooked a back leg with her finger and slowly drew it out.  No response from the little guy.  So far, so good, she smiled at me.

The veterinarian trimmed the toenails and released the foot.  It withdrew slowly back under the blanket of security.  The other three feet were pulled out and trimmed in the same manner with no resistance at all. 

"See, that wasn't so bad," the doctor whispered.  She plucked up a corner of the towel and peeked under at Little Ernie.  He stared back in mute surrender.

I picked up the towel and folded it away, then lifted up Little Ernie and carried him back to his owner.  The child's eyes were wide with surprise when I held out the calm and well-mannered iguana.

"He didn't try to bite you?" he asked.

"No," I told him honestly.  "He didn't really like the idea of his feet being trimmed, so we covered his eyes with a blanket.  He was very calm then."  I tried to downplay the ruckus in the examination room.  After all, no one had been hurt other than a few red welts from Ernie's tail.  I looked down at the little lizard and saw him give me a conspiratorial wink of an eyelid.  "Catch ya later, kiddo!" he seemed to say.

That night at home, I sat in my chair with my big dogs warming my feet, and made a phone call.

"Hello, Gramps.  How are you doing?  Hey, I thought about you today.  We had this very interesting patient at work..."  I can still hear Gramps' laughter to this day.

Kate Gibblin
katyg.1@juno.com

Kate Gibblin lives near Stillwater, Oklahoma and works as a veterinary assistant in a mixed animal practice.