Kitty Trauma

Kitty trauma. It had to happen and when it happens, oh wow, it happens. Again, attempting to leave the soap box under the stairs and simply share my stories rather than rant and rave about the heart wrenching maltreatment of animals here. Oops, almost managed to keep it under control. Almost.

Most of the teacher houses here have a cat or two who has been rescued by a soft hearted teacher and inherited by the cleaning girls after that teacher leaves. These cats have very good lives and are very well cared for. Thankfully. The cat at my first house, tiny black & white Chico, playfully wriggled his way into my heart with his howling hellos and his super social I-want-to-love-everybody personality. Just adore him. He, however, is a “he” and as he grew, his balls grew, and I knew that soon there would be more unwanted kittens around. I had promised the cleaning girls, who take very good care of him, that once I got settled into my new house, I would be back to have him taken in for a necessary neutering, sadly, far too uncommon here. Checked with other teachers, borrowed a cat cage, and brought him in for his consultation appointment.

The vet hospital is part of a university so several keen students came to check out a shivering, shaking, clingy Chico, and me, of course. Sweet students and it was encouraging to see that in a country where there seems to be little concern for animals, the veterinary program appears to be thriving. Consultation was a Thursday morning, “castration” was scheduled for Monday morning. Sorry Chico, but it has got to be done.

Thursday night, Hannah gets me out of my bed at around 1am. She and some friends had just gotten in. She had found OUR cat, a beautiful orange and white, slightly aloof but lovely Chica (yes, an “a” instead of an “o”) stuck on the security gate – she had fallen on one of the wrought iron stakes and had impaled herself though the leg. Hannah had gotten her off the stake but she had a good sized hole through her leg, had ripped off a bunch of skin, and was in an obvious state of panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Chico, cuddles up and wants to be with people when he is scared, Chica, wants to be alone. So I crawled under the bed where she was hiding and tried to see what the hell she had done to herself. She was in a lot of pain and tending to her injury as best she could; luckily not bleeding . There are no 24 hour vet hospitals and we knew the university hospital would be open in the morning. We tried to make her as comfortable as we could and hoped she would be okay through the night.

The next morning I packed a scared and injured Chica into a cardboard box, as the carrier was at Chico’s house, and got her to the hospital. Strange looks from the familiar staff as I unloaded a very frightened and weak but different cat. Oh, as they exchanged worried looks, oh poor kitty.

Side note. We’ve always had cats growing up. Our last cat, my sweet Petrie, we had for 19 years. 19! We got her my senior year in high school in Germany and she was part of our family until January 2010. I still get teary thinking about her. Anyway! Any time I had to take her to the vet, just for routine vaccinations or minor check-ups, I was a basket case. In tears, melt down, no reason at all. Just cried. My poor baby scared and in pain… I cried. A source of entertainment for the vet, no doubt. Remember my stories of trying to save little Chicken, the newborn kitten we found in Thailand? Yeah, hysterical tears. Now here in Indonesia, why should it be any different? Seriously.

I managed to NOT cry when I brought Chico in for his consultation, got a little choked up but was able to hold it together, but to see Chica in so much pain, yeah, it was over. Trying desperately to hold it together, the students spoke with a vet, who I saw for all of 3 seconds, and they whisked her away to do “surgery”, which meant stitch up her leg. I heard her screaming from down the hall and I had to leave.

The vet hospital is rough, basic, dirty, and there were goats grazing out in the construction / garbage dump area out back but still, better conditions than the people hospitals in Mozambique that I had a chance to see. I kept telling myself that it would be okay, it would be okay, she would be fine. She just needed some stitches, she would be fine.

When she was out of “surgery”, a limp and anesthetized cat was lying on the table. Okay, okay, I’ve seen this before. She’ll be groggy but soon, she’ll be fine. I can take her home and she’ll be fine.

Oh how it all went terribly wrong. As she woke, she was in complete distress. She kept flopping over but was frantic to move. The cleaning girls stayed with her all day as I had to go to school and when I came back at night, my heart leapt from concern to panic. She was still trying desperately to move, but couldn’t, and oh holy shit, she was blind. The poor cleaning girls didn’t know what I was talking about so I brought Hannah down and she agreed with me. What have they done to her?!?! I had the phone number to the vet who was scheduled to do Chico’s neutering on Monday, it was around 9pm and I had to do something. He spoke wonderful English and told me to bring her over to his house, where he has an office as well, right away.

Poor Chica, in so much distress and blind, me useless and emotional. Not a good combo. The vet was lovely but seemed to keep missing my point that I wasn’t concerned about her LEG, but that she was BLIND! He redressed her leg and looked in her eyes, saying that they looked fine. Her pupils were completely dilated, as they had been since the stitching up, but he said they seemed fine. He didn’t know what to tell me as he would have to wait until Monday to talk to the vet who treated her. He gave her another sedative (noooooo!!!) but said it would help her relax as she had been so distressed all day. He said to bring her back to him should anything else change but for now, just give her time. I’m not good at just sitting and waiting, especially when there are no answers! What am I waiting for? How much worse can it get? If she is going to get better, WHEN will it happen? Arrrrrgh!!!

A long, long night of zero sleep as she fought to come out of the second sedative and threw and flopped herself blindly around my bed and room. The sun came up, no improvement. We kept her in one room that was sparely furnished and over a few hours, she seemed to be able to figure her way around it without bumping into things but still couldn’t see. Hannah and I talked about a blind cat living where we live… impossible. I’m an emotional, over-tired wreck. A google search shared several stories of sudden and irreversible blindness due to an overdose of anesthesia… I’ve killed this cat. Tears, tears, tears.

The day passed, then another and slowly, slowly she recovered. Thank every star in the sky, she has regained her sight and her spirit. She is actually seeking out the company of people as I think she has had quite a fright. She has been spending her nights sleeping on my bed and I am A-okay with this. We still have to get those stitches removed but you can be sure, I’ll take them out with my teeth before letting her be sedated again. Oh Chica, thank you for not dying on me!

The story’s not over yet. You didn’t think it was over yet, did you? It couldn’t possibly be over yet!

Remember, I had an appointment to get Chico neutered? Oh yeah, back to the hospital we go. I am in a VERY fragile state come Monday morning. The vet whose house I had taken Chica to on Friday night assured me he would be the one to do Chico’s neutering. He had studied in France, his English was excellent and he was extremely compassionate. He had offered several apologies at his house and at the hospital again on Monday in reference to what happened to Chica. I stood there as he attempted to get information out of the students as to what actually happened to her but he got nothing. He shook his head after talking with them, offered me another apology, and said that while it was his colleague who stitched her up, no one seemed to be able to give him a clear story on dosages, what happened, or why. Scary.

Okay, so Chico. A shaking, clingy boy and yep, of course I’m in tears. In an attempt to ease my anxiety, the vet allowed me to bring Chico into the operating room and I was there as they tied him with ropes, spread eagle on his little back and gave him an injection. The vet ordered and administered everything just to be on the safe side. I watched as Chico’s pupils grew enormous and black then glass over – oh no! Oh no! Oh no! He assured me all was fine. I looked away and paced.

Why am I in this room? I can’t handle this! This shouldn’t be about me but I obviously can’t handle this! Just before he sliced into poor little Chico’s balls, the vet looked up at me, smiled, and said “Be calm.” Too late, buddy, too late.

This poor cat wriggled despite being unable to make a sound and was obviously able to feel what was happening. 30 minutes dragged on for hours. I was thoroughly nauseous at the thought of this sweet cat being needlessly tortured and I was responsible for it. While they all assured me that this was the safest way to treat him, all I could think of was grabbing him and running. I’m sorry, I kept whispering to Chico, I’m so, so sorry.

By the time I got Chico back to his house, he was already starting to wiggle about and seemed to be in a much better state than Chica was. When I came back to check on him that night after school, all was right in his world other than a sore bottom. Follow up visits and reports have all been incredibly positive. He is a very strong little cat and has recovered exceptionally well despite being awake when his balls were sliced off. Oh Chico cat, I’m so, so sorry.

And as I write this, Chica is laid out flat on her back on my bed, four paws in the air, sound asleep. She can run, jump, and see perfectly well. It has been a long week but a shaved and stitched leg are all that remain from her trauma a week ago. Amazing, amazing, amazing. Please, please, please let that be the end of our kitty traumas, my heart can’t take much more.

As for anyone who is interested in becoming a vet, please feel free to set up shop in Indonesia. Wow, are you ever needed here.

Racing bulls - who knew?

Animals are involved in so many cultural rituals the world over. Some are for good luck, others for entertainment, and others still for food and feasting. I’m not sure that I will ever find peace or a middle ground that will allow me to appreciate a cultural experience without my heart breaking for the animals involved in the process. I continue to be ridiculously fortunate in finding opportunities to be part of truly fascinating experiences so I share my stories and attempt to leave the soap box for a later time. Oh my goodness, I spent a weekend at the bull races.

How can you tell when it’s going to be a fantastic weekend? When it all starts off with a ROAD TRIP and said road trip is my first ever on my motorbike! YESSSSSS!!! Kat & Jon are two adventurer extrordinaires going on their 3rd year here in Surabaya. They had very graciously invited me to check out the (in)famous bull races on the island of Madura, just over that ginormous bridge off the edge of Surabaya where much missed Xenia took me on my very first real motorbike ride (still miss you, Xen!) a few months back. They had been to the races last year and said it is a fascinating, albeit intense, experience, one not to be missed. And yes, we would be taking our bikes. I’m IN!

A brilliant, whizzing 3 hour ride to the far side of Madura zooming over the frightening and exhilarating bridge, along the coast, through small villages, and navigating around jam-packed, traffic stopped local markets full of thoroughly distressed livestock heading towards their demise. My first long ride, my first super speedy ride (well only 80kms/hr but 80 kph on a bike feels like at least double that!), my first real let ‘er loose go on a bike and no big surprise… LOVED IT! I would have been happy enough to turn my baby around and drive all the way back again but no, no, no… we have some fancy cows and bulls to see so hotel found, quick shower had, and we ventured back out to the sweating heat of midday Indonesia to find us some culture. Here we go.

Not sure of the history of it all but essentially it looks like things progressed from a bored farmer gazing at his yoked animals plowing the field and thinking hmmm… fear makes them run, who doesn’t like really loud and varied types of noise, and dressing animals up makes me giggle, SO! let’s make an event of it all. Oh heaven help us, an event has been made of it all.

A short, sweaty walk to the festivities and we pushed and shoved our way into an overcrowded fair ground where several teams had their prized cows (I’m pretty sure they were all cows) dolled up, harnessed up, and on display while they took turns parading and prancing around the grounds (people and animals) showing off their moves and costumes. I really don’t know how to explain it. As the dressed up cows are marched through the crowds, a group of performing musicians and dancers trail behind them in their team outfit / uniforms. Two very made up girls lead the musical, dancing group gyrating, grinding, and swaggering while taking money from outstretched hands. Very sassy, provocative, interesting. Never did get the answer on if they were “dancing” for money or offering other services or where the money ends up going but… wow, Indonesia. Apparently Madura is well known for its “talented” women. Yes, ask someone in Surabaya about the women in Madura and you get a cheeky grin. The women in Madura are very proud of their “talents”.

The noise of these endless performers, the sheer number of people crammed in on top of each other, the pounding heat aggravating the smells of trampled hay and general fairground odors and the nonstop staring, touching, and attempts to photograph the strange white folk was interesting at first, entertaining and amusing, a novelty to be enjoyed, however the endearing nature of it all eventually wore thin as the hours ticked by. After several photos and litres of sweat drained, I was ready for a nap. Culture is fascinating but I needed a break from the endless intensity of it all. Thankfully, Kat was on the same page as me.

A lovely stroll and a much needed cold drink break followed by a comatose like nap and we were ready to explore bullrace Madura by night. After a lovely dinner in a beautiful, newly opened local restaurant where escaping a zombie attack was a main topic of conversation, our evening goal: the Eternal Flame. Not kidding you. So the Bangles tune of the same name was being belted out full volume as we hopped back on the bikes and made our way to where the Flame was to be found. Sadly, the road took us to a florescent lit tourist trap; our sought after amazing natural phenomenon defeated by the commercialism of it all. Gas seeps out of the ground and there are constant orange and blue flames burning and dancing directly out of the dirt. Interesting but sadly diminished by the glaring lights and vendor stands. A few inquiries made and apparently there was SECOND Eternal Flame burning bright in a less public area. 5 minutes down the road and we found ourselves stumbling through the middle of a deserted farmer’s field in the inky dark of night with stars sparkling overhead as we followed the blue glow of … yes!... a real, BLUE Eternal Flame!

Now THIS was cool! No one around as we danced, sang, and jumped around this dusty field that was ON FIRE! Not burning, just small flames flaring out of cracks in the ground. When we poked around with a stick or overturned a rock, there’d be a poof of flame or the direction of the blue would change or it would extinguish itself and escape from another crack in the ground somewhere else. SO eerie! SO amazing! A really, really interesting place. We were there forever as photos were attempted, UFOs were spotted several times overhead, and The Bangles was sung on repeat. Too much fun. Partying at the Gates of Hell… good, good times! Next stop… off to see if the bull race party was still happening…

No small surprise that the intensity of the evening was still full-on as we stopped by to take in the stage performance of dancers and singers. Simple me was happy as could be after finding a true blue cotton candy vendor. So as the three of us munched on sweet, fluffy nothingness, we soaked in hot, sweaty Madura by night. What a full, fun day. And we still have Sunday, the RACES to see yet! WOW!

So Sunday arrives and I think I’m ready for this. Yeah, as always, I was wrong.

The sheer number of people in any given space is suffocating, overwhelming, panic-inducing, utter chaos. Lining up is unheard of, pushing, shoving, stepping on & over, elbowing, grabbing, just barbaric disregard for another is the only way of getting from point A to point B, apparently. I will never, ever get used to this. Never. We didn’t hesitate to pull the white kid privilege card as it got us in a side entrance and out of the smothering crowds. Once inside, the rodeo atmosphere was exciting; dusty, dirty, cowboy town. The hats alone were fantastically entertaining. Just no words. Jon & Kat were on a mission, they knew where they were going and what they wanted to do and see as follow up from last year. I was quite happy to tag along, camera in hand. Again, being white folk, we were invited into people’s tents as they prepared their fancied up bulls for the races, singing and playing music and generally pumping them up (I guess???) The center of the grounds was a massive, football field sized enclosed grassy area where two sets of two bulls raced from one end to the other with a small teenaged boy (!!!) “controlling” them from a latched on piece of flimsy wood dangling behind the two massive creatures. Oh dear gawd… what are we doing here???

Details are irrelevant as of course the bulls are whipped and other various things are done to work them up enough to race full speed the length of the arena (something that they quite obviously don’t naturally do). We were granted special access to the INSIDE of the arena, where the bulls were raced, so we could take photos. At one point, I stopped, looked at Kat, and the full realization of what we were doing smacked me in the head. Should the bulls decide to do their own thing, we were in the middle of a wide open fenced in area surrounded by thousands of people who we would somehow have to climb up and over should there be a need for escape. The coolest place to be, but yeah, definitely the dumbest. Nothing like a little danger to make the atmosphere and photographs worth it. Excellent.

That being said however, we were hanging out at the starting gate. At the very far end of the arena, the finish line, hundreds of people crammed in to stand in the exact spots the racing bulls were rushing towards! In the distance, we could see a ripple in the crowds as they attempted to avoid being trampled by the oncoming train-speed beasts, as stopping them is obviously a bit of an effort. No media or medical care here but there MUST have been injuries if not deaths at that end. There MUST have been. I considered checking out the finish line for about half a second. Ummm… nope… I’m good here, thanks.

A couple of hours in the merciless sun watching these bulls being assaulted in the name of entertainment and my stomach started to churn. Could have been heat stroke setting in or just the sheer sadness of it all. The beasts were well cared for before and after the races; hand washed with cool water and endlessly fed and groomed but the violence and force used to get them to race, yeah, teary me. It was fascinating, I appreciated the intensity of it all, I mean there were thousands and thousands of people there to watch this incredible event, but yeah, it gets to you. Kat & Jon had arranged to speak with one of the owners and jockeys so I left them to get the inside scoop and decided to just take a little wander around the deserted streets.

Some serious elbowing (I have been blessed with superbly sharp and effective elbows) eventually got me through the solid mass of ogling slack-jaws and I was out on the streets. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Too. Many. People.

Wandering the nearly empty streets was perfect. Saw some amazing kids just being kids and enjoyed the relative silence of some domestic back alley ways. Another kind of culture equally as fascinating for me.

Regrouped back at the hotel and a mid afternoon departure back to the big city. Another exhilarating ride on the bike, crossing a beautifully lit up bridge just after the sunset, and tying up a wonderfully interesting weekend with two wonderfully interesting new friends. There is never a shortage of things to do or see here. Lucky, lucky me.