He – she? – seemed no more than mouse-size, when I turned around to look. Its tiny yet piercing screams sounded unlike any Camino creature we had so far encountered – the scurrying shrews, squirrels, rabbits; the melodic Spanish birdsong carried on the breeze. The orange streak of fluff headed straight for us, and when I bent to pick it up, I could see the kitten was very sick. Its eyes were crusted completely shut, its nose was running, and within its desperate meows were rapid, raspy breaths that broke my heart. The crying kitten fit in the palm of my hand.
Oh, no! OhmyGod! It was then the not-thinking kicked in. Gina and I didn’t for a second think, this is now our problem. Not once did it occur to either of us that the tiny striped and spotted tiger we now ran with along the Way would cut short our Camino, avoid being taken-in by a rescue, indicate to Air France he would not be ready to fly for another four months, and otherwise perfectly embody the spirit of the ancient myths, enduring legends, and contemporary memoirs where Camino pilgrims from all around the world basically agree: love it or hate it, make it all 500 miles or fail, on this walk you will meet the miraculous.
“Wait. Where are we going, what are we doing, can we please not run?” As pooped a pilgrim as she was, Gina (huffing and puffing) bravely kept pace while I carried the kitten in both hands to keep it warm, and answered only to the solitary thought in my otherwise empty head.
“Help. We need help, and a ride to a 24-hour vet in Pamplona.”
“Is there a 24-hour vet in Pamplona?” Google said there was, so it was just a matter of getting to the clump of shrubs/shacks/sheep sheds still ahead, where certainly the kindness of strangers would call us a taxi or, more likely, perch us on the back of their GasGas for a motorcycle ride – unspeakably frightening – to the city of streets that run with bulls.
“Señor! Scusi!” Gina shouted to the first person we saw when, closer up, the shrubs took shape as a small collection of houses. The man walking his dog looked up. “Scusi! Scusi, please, Señor!”
“Gin, I think that’s Italian,” I said, but no matter. The Spaniard with his Spanish Mastiff looked so alarmed at our approach that it was clear: no way would he prop even one sweaty, disheveled, wild-eyed woman – American, no less – on his beloved motorbike; the Camino after all had a 16th century history of witches’ covens convening in the woods outside Roncesvalles, but, given the kitten…well, he would (grudgingly) drive us the short distance to our auberge in his dented, blue Ibiza. A proper taxi would take us from there.
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At first, Dr. Javier, slight and sweet, and his lovely assistant Lucia seemed pretty immature for veterinary professionals. Meeting us at the door of the intimate, two-room clinic in the town not quite to Pamplona that the taxi driver knew, the doctor himself took the kitten in his gentle, expert hands, and he and Lucia together transformed into two tween girls overcome by kitten cuteness.
“Oh, little michi michi! Mi gatito!” They squealed and cooed in soft, high-pitched tones. Passing kitty back and forth – Lucia wanted her turn! – they cheeped and sang in a soothing way, asking the baby what was wrong, what happened to mom, and saying, it’s okay, sweet, little gatito, you are safe now. Gina and I were stunned. Schooled by American vets to expect certain unpleasantries – crowded waiting rooms, a crushing bill – here in Spain things were more heartfelt. Dr. Javier spoke a bit of English, so once he persuaded Lucia to relinquish her kitten coos-and-kisses long enough for his exam, he rendered his opinion: what we had was a European shorthair – likely male – aged two-and-a-half or three weeks. He was covered in fleas, suffered from a respiratory infection, and could be immuno-compromised due to his mother’s absence. To have a chance he would need feeding by syringe every two hours, a round of antibiotics, eye drops twice a day, and lots of love and warmth.
“Will you take him home to the States with you?” he asked, snuggling little michi to his chest while Lucia – quietly cheeping and blowing kisses in the background – waited for her next cuddle. Dr. Javier then gently cleansed the crust from the kitten’s eyes and they opened for the first time. Miau, miau, he sweetly sang to him, welcome to your life.
Gina and I looked at each other with shock.
“No!” we said together.
Instead, we said, we would be very, very appreciative if you would take him, or help us find a rescue that will. Gina was especially positive and optimistic. “Surely you know someone who easily can find him the happiest of homes!”
Surely.
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