Timko at the Doctor’s

Once upon a time, in Oak Grove, there lived a little hedgehog called Timko. His baby sister Lily lived with him. She could already crawl, and she grabbed everything she saw.

That morning Lily crawled up to Timko — and pinch! — she got him by the ear!

“Ow!” squeaked Timko. A moment later he was laughing: “It doesn’t even hurt anymore!”

“Timko,” said Mom, “after breakfast we’re going to see Doctor Beaver. He’ll check you over and give you your vaccine.”

A vaccine is a shot. Timko frowned. A shot means a needle. And what was it like, that needle? Timko didn’t know, and that made it even scarier.

Mom tied on her blue apron.

“I’ll bake a pie, just in case.”

While Mom kneaded the dough, Timko climbed under the table with Lily.

“Lily,” he whispered in a scary voice, “Doctor Beaver is huge! His teeth are this big! And the needle is like a stick! When he pokes you, you’ll cry till evening!”

Lily’s eyes went round. Her lip began to tremble.

“No, no!” she squeaked, and crawled to Mom, quick, quick, so fast her bonnet slid sideways.

Timko felt a little ashamed. And a little scared, too. What if the needle really was like a stick?

The forest hospital was in an old tree stump, with round little windows and green moss on the roof. Doctor Beaver came out to meet them: big, chestnut-brown, in a white coat.

“Good day, Timko. First, let’s see how much you’ve grown.”

Timko stood against the wall — wow, taller than in spring! Then he climbed onto the scale — wow, heavier!

The doctor put a stethoscope to Timko’s chest.

“Ooh, it’s cold!” Timko shivered.

“It is cold,” the doctor agreed. “It’ll warm up in a moment. Breathe deeply. Now say ‘aaah.’”

“Aaaaah!” said Timko so loudly that the doctor smiled into his whiskers.

“And now your vaccine. It teaches your body to recognize an illness. If one ever comes, your body will say, ‘I know you!’ and chase it away fast.”

“Will it hurt?” whispered Timko.

“I’ll tell you honestly: it will hurt a little. As if someone pinched you. And then it will pass quickly.”

But Timko remembered his needle-stick. And — whoosh! — he rolled into a ball. Nothing but prickles sticking out.

Doctor Beaver was in no hurry. He sat down beside him and waited. Mom found Timko’s paw between the prickles and held it.

Timko peeked out with one eye. He snorted through his little nose.

“Breathe in, breathe out, and off we go!”

It didn’t help very much. He breathed in again. And again. And at last he held out his shoulder.

Pinch! — and it was over.

“That’s it?” Timko said in surprise. “That’s just like when Lily pinched my ear!”

The doctor stuck a bandage shaped like a cross on his shoulder.

“It might ache a little for a day. That’s all right. It happens.”

The house smelled of apple pie. Timko ran into the kitchen.

“Lily! Look, I have a bandage! The needle was tiny, it pinched — and that’s all! It’s not scary at all!”

Lily glanced at the bandage — and hid behind Mom’s apron.

“No, no!” she squeaked.

“But it’s true!” said Timko.

But Lily only clung tighter to Mom’s apron.

“Next week it’s Lily’s turn to see the doctor,” Mom said softly, stroking the little one. “Oh, it will take us a long time to talk her into it.”

Dad led Timko to the growth plank on the door frame.

“Now where’s my pencil?”

Timko pointed at Dad’s ear. Dad drew a little line, and beside it he drew a tiny bandage cross.

The shoulder under the bandage ached a little, just as the doctor had said. And from behind Mom’s apron two frightened little eyes watched Timko.

Timko had made up the scary story in a minute. But a minute was far too short to make Lily believe him again.