All Creatures Great And Small

“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”

– Albert Schweitzer

Good news must be delivered promptly, and I have very good news: Rafa was properly diagnosed and treated by the best vet in Granada, no exaggeration.

I was wrong—no broken bones. He had a very bad urinary tract infection, and was totally blocked, hence the high fevers, lethargy, limping, and today, total loss of appetite, motility, and his entire personality.

Note: This post is not strictly about my kitten Rafa, but I ask that you instead enter into it a form of travel writing in draft formation—(still tilting my windmills toward a viable travel magazine.)

Honestly, you can, and maybe should, judge a nation by its veterinarians. First of all, a big shoutout to my friend Öyku, who I was introduced to via our friend Ammiel, who said he had a friend whose photos from her window look just like mine and he reckoned we live on the same street. “And she’s a cat person,” he said.

She’s also a poet, translator, teacher, and Lorca-ist.

Ammiel was correct; She lives a stone’s throw from me, and we have a shared cat world—her cats (formerly from Brooklyn) are characters that belong in a novella all by themselves.

Öyku told me the first time we met that she had a genius vet, and I must make him my vet and no other.

This morning, I knew she was out on a trip, somewhere in Spain, leading a tour, but texted her with my urgent message that now I really needed her genius vet. She had only moments to spare but she put it all together, and we got a 1:30 appointment at Clinica Veterinaria Arabial. Sinem came with me, and when we came in to the waiting room, I knew we were in the right place. No air conditioning, no forms to fill out, just a chair, and a very short wait. Nestor, (I don’t know his last name) greeted us, according to custom, with a kiss on each cheek and radiated warmth. Sinem gave him the story, and he listened carefully. A towering, tall man with thick white hair, and warm brown eyes.

Rafa was utterly lifeless, and his temperature was even higher than last night. I presented my theory that he had a broken bone and Nestor took a quick X-ray, which turned up immediately on a computer screen. None of the usual X-Ray red tape, or arduous rituals we get in the US—none of the sermons on what to expect, cost wise. He just scooped up the kitten and x-rayed him in an adjacent room.

One way to describe Spain is to say it is in the culture to do things simply and without fanfare.

Maybe Spain is the opposite of the United States?

Our travel magazine will tackle all of this in great detail.

A detail along the way: I’m still campaigning to pay last night’s emergency hospital vet bill. Elena from the rescue group is leaving them messages. As I say, Spain might be the actual opposite of the United States—as colors can be one another’s opposites.

My rage against US veterinary culture is a smoldering volcano you have not seen the opening sparks to yet—but it’s coming.

Dr. Nestor, as I will call him, for now, roared with laughter when I told him our boy’s name is “Rafa.” He wrote “Rafael” in his file. I didn’t understand why it was funny but Sinem explained that it sounds, in Spanish, like a big strong burly man with a big mustache. To my ear it just sounds cute. “Rafa.”

History Repeats

When my daughter in law Paula’s mother, the famous Carmen, rushed her nephew to a hospital 30 some odd years ago, after a slight problem with his home birth, she was asked what his name was upon arrival. He needed a name to be admitted. She had no idea, and in her panic said: “Rafa!”

Rafael is Carmen’s father’s name and her brother’s name. (This was her brother’s baby.) So that made three generations of Rafaels, or Rafas, in the family. I was struggling to settle on a name for this little one, and also didn’t know if I could keep him. One day, about two weeks ago, Elena (head of the rescue group) and her colleague and I took the baby to their vet, way outside the city, where they charge nothing. When we walked in Elena said: “What’s his name? We need a name or they won’t admit him.” I had no idea so I said: “Rafa!”

After that I still tried to name him either “Serge” after Serge Lang or “Copper” after my latest health obsession, but then one day Elena texted me a response to a video and called him Rafa, with a laughing emoji at his personality, something he’d done, and that sealed it. Somebody had now used his name—and thus it became his name.

But everybody Spanish truly laughs at his name when they catch sight of him.

The last kitten I rescued in Spain, from Almuñecar, 2022, I named Manolete, but then she turned out to be a girl. The name stayed with her. I have been wanting to tell you that story for two years, but the cat stories I hoard and hoard, worried that it seems indulgent when the world is always ending etc.

I am now beginning to see that we lose nothing by stopping the cascade of horror to tell cat stories, or any stories at all, the more “useless” the better.

Dr. Nestor squeezed Rafa’s belly, and peered at the images. He took his time, and then he explained: He has a urinary tract infection, blocking is ability to pee (which I noticed since last night but didn’t put two and two together, because I didn’t know males could get UTIs.) He said it will take about two days to get the inflammation down, and then he will be fit as a fiddle. Rafa got three injections—antibiotic, anti-parastitic, and anti-inflammatory. I was to monitor his peeing and bring him back first thing in the morning if he did not pee. I asked: “Sobrevivirá?”

His answer also struck me as Spanish, for its lack of hedging.

”Sí.”

American vets in my experience always tell you your animal will quite possibly die but we will wait and see. Boy do I have a story about this. I promise to tell it.

Dr. Nestor spoke life over Rafa, and so it was. I looked at Sinem and she was quietly ecstatic.

The bill was 68 Euros, about 1/10th to 1/20th of what it would be in the US.

When we came home, Rafa went straight to his little pan where I’d placed a paper towel so I could see what was going on, and peed a small river. I saw the paper towel filling with liquid and felt an indescribable gratitude. Then he ate a plate of raw beef. Then he started chasing Alexander around.

I have spent my life opposing the poisoning that passes for medicine but today it was simple: The kitten was near death, and an accurate diagnosis of a serious infection was the cause. It was knocked out by an anti-inflammatory and an antibiotic.

What’s worse than allowing our ideological convictions to block a life or death moment?

This is Rafa right after the visit, imagining his stuffed bear as his mother. He does the same thing with the fluffy bathroom rug.

I think over time, we all will slowly evolve to just a bunch of friends relaying tales to one another, while the Truman Show does whatever to wants off in the distance.

What do you all think?