When God created animals, he made them in his image. Perfect and divine by nature. But since God invested celestial stocks in veterinary businesses for the sake of passive income through dividends, he sprinkled the animals with human flaws and made them mortal.
What an asshole.
When we arrived in Valle Solo, the animals were chipper children in a sugar rush. New people meant new schedules and new habits which lead to new adventures!
But like marriage, when the honeymoon phase is over and your significant other begins farting in his sleep, the initial excitement subsides and reality hits like a kick in the balls.
After a few weeks, we noticed Buster searched odd places to lie down. Underneath the unused and dust-collecting desk in the living room, in the farthest corner of the kitchen, and on the hard and cold floor, instead of his fluffy blanket.
I made the common mistake of asking Doctor Google for answers. His response was a dire interpretation of my search history.
Sorry to inform you, but your dog is old and dying. It’ll probably be a horrible and excruciating death, you incompetent piece of shit. You cannot even properly take care of yourself. How did you expect to care for a dog?
Between losing Buster several times on walks, with the fear of never finding him again, and him deciding to eat shit as dessert thrice a day, was I now facing his actual death?
Did I have to explain to Charles and Camilla after less than two months, their dog died because of old age?
Sorry, you missed it. It was a long and probably painful process.
“Just take him to the vet,” Teodora said on the second day after my online research. “If he’s not dying of age, you will worry him to death.”
“I’m just a compassionate person,” I said indignantly. Teodora snorted very much unladylike. “You just don’t want a bad review on Housesitters.”
The next day we threw Buster on the Veterinarian’s cold metal table of reality. The young woman treated our old moody Jack Russell like the King himself, touching him so gently and in places, that Teodora almost kicked me because I got jealous.
After a few tests, they found two reasons for his sulkiness. First, he had heart problems and needed to get on medicine. His uninspiring attitude was due to low energy since his heart wasn’t strong enough anymore to pump blood over the entire length of his body.
Second, he had severe depression. After a month with his favorite British humans, they left him alone with some weirdos who sat the whole day at their computers instead of working outside to fix the house and maintain the garden.
“Do some fun activities with him and it’ll be better soon.”
And fun activities we did. We went to the lake, a magnificent azure-blue oasis in the middle of Spain’s desert.
We hiked on mountain tops and through forest greens. We chased sheep, goats, and rabbits. We ripped apart blankets, destroyed plastic balls, and enjoyed the summer.
Buster became a grandpa on steroids.
On a summer evening, Lilly, our beloved princess from the Orient, looked at us with dazed eyes. She sat upright on her ass, swaying with a gentle breeze that wasn’t there, reminding me of my drunken teenage years, and I wondered who gave her some booze.
I tried to animate her for a walk, play with the ball, or at least turn over to pet her belly, but all she did was stare with an awkward expression on her snout.
Lilly was a quiet dog. Never barked without a reason, never yelped except she was hungry. But this evening, she let out a growl of severe exhaustion and deep pain.
Her legs started twitching, then her back. Eventually, she looked like the little girl from the Exorcist.
“We need to bring her to the vet,” Teodora said as I ran through the house like a beheaded chicken. When the world pivots on its axis, kicks my status quo in the corner and pisses on it to show dominance, this is how I react. I panic. It’s not beautiful, definitely not heroic, but it’s my reality. Told you, God’s an asshole.
The young lady at the vet looked me straight in the eyes and said as gently as she could muster,
“You need to bring her to a clinic. ASAP. Which means, now. Better yesterday. The fact you’re still standing here listening means you still don’t get it. Get the fuck out of here!”
I drove through the night. The darkness swallowed the lights of the car like a hungry beast. But I didn’t quiver. My foot pressed to the floor, and I pushed the battered old Citroen to its speed limit. With nothing less than 120 km/h, we flew over the highway, fueled by Diesel and fear.
My heart hammered like a speed-metal drum solo on cocaine every time Lilly cried from the back. The sound tore at me, ripped me apart and I fought hard to keep my shit together. She could feel my pain, as I could feel hers. A connection between human and animal beyond explanation. It was God’s cruel humor.
When we arrived at the vet, Lilly insisted on walking herself. Pride can take you a long way. As we waited, she pissed on the floor. I patted her head.
“Good girl. That’s what they got for letting us wait.” I pissed next to it, you know, to show dominance.
Lilly had a hernia. Something tore inside of her, causing a swelling that pinched her nerves and caused spasms. It also affected her bladder.
But thank doctors, a few days after surgery Lilly was fine again, and we had all the work in the world to take it easy and keep her from running wild.
Just when you think: Okay, bitches. Enough visits to the vet. These are nice people, but so are ice cream vendors.
Then Blanco happened.
The big white cat was like a Greek philosopher. A stoic watching the world and contemplating life. He walked at the same pace, no matter if the sun was shining or the rain was hailing. He kept mostly by himself and amused himself by being him.
One morning, he changed.
I thought he was hungry and demanded better food than the everyday kibbles in his bowl. I thought I would teach him a lesson by ignoring him.
A low howl reverberated through the kitchen, through the living room, and through the entrance hall. He talked in tongues, foreign and foredoomed. Songs of painful paths and lost lives. He clawed at our pants, trying to make us listen. He pleaded with his eyes and begged with his voice.
Why don’t you listen, human? Why let me suffer? Am I worthless to you?
Eventually, I got scared and looked at Teodora. She knew my thoughts and nodded. “Bring him to the vet.”
“Listen,” the young lady said. I wondered if she ever took days off.
“I’m plain with you. He’s dying. Like in death sentence dying. The last of light. Nine lives over.” She clapped her hands. And not in applause.
”He has a bladder infection and because you ignored him, his piss runs in his bloodstream now, killing him from the inside.”
“But you can fix him?” I asked pleadingly.
She let out a heavy sigh. “Blanco is not a car. He can’t be fixed. If God wanted him to run smoothly, he would offer spare parts online. Or give him a better caretaker.”
My shoulders slacked and my head sunk down. Tears were running down my face because I rubbed some disinfectant in my eyes.
“But you could bring him to the clinic. They are specialized in saving–”
I didn’t let her finish. I grabbed Blanco under my arm and kicked the door open. It splintered and shattered as I ran to the car.
“Buckle up, pussy. The pedal goes to the metal.”
The speed of light is a physical joke. A restriction of the narrowminded. Real speed comes with adrenaline, when the world slows down because you’re going too fast.
The Citroen raced along the highway like a death wish on wheels. We drove so fast, the force of the wind pressed the car into its suspension, spraying sparks like fireworks behind us.
It was madness, and I was the madman at the wheel. 120 km/h is not for the weak.
The vet at the clinic greeted me like an old friend and admonished me for not visiting more often. They could smell the money reeking out of my pocket and heard the cries for urgency.
“First,” I said, holding my credit card back, “you save his life. Then we talk money.”
We stared at each other. From man to vet. A good old stand-off, a test of strength and will. I saw a drip of sweat forming on the man’s temple as it slowly ran down his cheek. His eyes averted, and he lost composure. He knew I won and took the cat for emergency treatment.
I pissed in the corner. You know, to show dominance.
Blanco had to stay at the vet for almost a week. He came close to death but never walked that far. He was probably too fat and couldn’t follow death in his long strides.
But seeing the afterlife, Blanco changed. When he returned home, he had lost half his weight and instead of stoically watching the world he chose to participate in life and snuggled closer to us humans. He knew we loved him like our own imaginary child and decided to give some of it back. Human after all.