Death by hedgehog

Just when we thought the world had enough problems, another one pops up.

Death by hedgehog.

Look folks, you can’t make these things up.

The symptoms are nasty – cramps, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, chills, fever, dehydration and death.

So far this year nine people across the country – two of them right here in Minnesota – have been laid low by the little rotund bundles of spines and cute they’ve invited into their homes – joining 26 others sickened – two of whom ended up dead – over the last five years.

The culprit? Salmonella.

The mode of transmission? A kiss.

Yep, right along with licking raw chicken and chowing down on manure-sprayed spinach, folks are coming down with gut-ripping cases of salmonella from intimate osculation with hedgehogs kept as domestic pets.

Who would have thunk it?

All this time I thought kissing was reserved for domestic partners.

That’s right folks, it’s official: Hedgehog kissing spreads disease.

There you have it. One more cause for panic for a seriously unnerved nation.

Quite frankly, I never considered cautioning folks against putting a lip lock on a captive spiny rodent to be a priority function of the CDC – but then again, I never imagined making out with a hedgehog. I mean, really… There are quite a number of humans I wouldn’t choose to kiss – and for a number of good, valid and hygienic reasons – so why would I consider species remotely related to the human family as kissin’ cousins?

Look, I really do understand pets, and I’ve had many a dog jump up and exuberantly lick my face – an interspecies interaction I invariably react to with clenched lips, scrunched eyelids and a vigorous evasive flinch – followed by a thorough swabbing with shirt sleeve, shirt tail of whatever absorbent material that readily comes to hand. I like dogs, but I choose not to lick dogs and wish they would grant me the same courtesy.

Over the years I’ve learned to draw appropriate lines when it comes to interspecies intimacy. I’ve had daily association with cattle by the herd, and right to the last steer and heifer they went unhugged, our emotional contact limited to the occasional friendly pat and word of quiet encouragement as they headed off to slaughter. Likewise, I bid farewell to thousand after thousand market hogs with nary a goodbye kiss to comfort them on their way to becoming SPAM and breakfast sausage. Heartless? No, ours was a business arrangement, nothing more. Don Corleone would understand.

And over the years I’ve shared my living space with a variety of dogs, cats, and for several years while the kids were kids, a virtual bedroom gerbil factory. I’ve petted them, scratched them, played with them, had them asleep on my lap, my feet and the foot of my bed. I’ve fed them, watered them, vetted them and buried them; but I’ve never once felt the need to participate in an inter-species spit-swap to express affection for them.

Really, there oughta be a limit…

When I think how farmers of my grandpa’s generation took pride in not having livestock in the house, I can imagine them just shaking their heads to see us spend hours every week standing around watching the family dog poop; how we’ll stash a box of  kitty litter laced with petrifying  cat turds in a back closet or behind a bedroom door. They’d marvel at folks keeping snakes, lizards, rats and other vermin they struggled to exterminate in climate controlled comfort; chickens kept for cuddly pets instead of next Sunday’s dinner.

And if any one of them ever kissed a hedgehog it was on a dare, on a bet, or after way, way, way too much whiskey.

And they didn’t need the CDC to teach them that.