Like many creatures here in Bali, Dingus got off to a rough start. A sad yowling led Pipin and I to find her - a tiny black smudge with seeping eyes - huddled underneath a motor scooter muffler in our hotel villa’s driveway. Though her origins are unknown, she was most likely drawn in from the cluttered ally by the smell of frying eggs. A quick scan of the adjacent area revealed no searching cat mother or litter of mewling siblings so Pipin and I clucked with matronly concern, made her a standard-issue stray kitten cardboard box bed and discussed what to do with our new guest.
I initially pegged her at 2-3 weeks due to her size and that filmy, nondescript eye color universally possessed by all kittens and, as such, offered her milk, a gesture met with her soon to be established signature attribute - endless reproachful squawking. Later, I would learn that she was actually 1-2 months old and that her diminutive size was really a reflection of her malnourished, hard-knock life.
Dingus’s early hours were spent sleeping and wobbling around the courtyard, occasionally turning her snotty little face toward me to yowl accusingly - you did this to me she seemed to say. Her tiny, soot colored body was made to look even smaller by her comically supersized baby bear paws which would snag on any surface they encountered. Her tail was half the size of a normal cat’s and doubled back on itself as if broken in at least two places. She sneezed and wept pus from her bleary eyes; her frail body shook by some invisible breeze. But even then, in these uncertain moments, Dingus’s spirit was strong. Her voice was loud and reverbated its furious squeaky toy tones off the tile and stone to the upper reaches of our villa complex. Oh and she liked to try out her new needle fangs on unsuspecting fingers and toes. Guess it just feels good sometimes to sink your teeth into something soft.
As I would cradle her fragile body on my lap, I would encourage Dingus to eat and grow strong. She responded by chewing on my fingers and continuing her incessant scolding. Amused and distracted, I let this harmless endeavor continue until… crunch… a miniature vampire fang pierced through the upper layer of my finger. Oh right… somewhere, sometime long ago someone told me that stray dogs and cats in Bali are known to have rabies. Oh.. and also...rabies are transmitted from saliva to blood through… bites... among other things.
I’ve started having moments like this in my time here in Bali… where careless complacency suddenly comes to the screeching halt realization that details matter in a land that is not your own. Different customs, different culture, different social norms, but also, different threats that you often fail to see until they are leering at you in the rear view mirror. I suppose I should give myself a bit of a break here, after all 1) there is a lot to process when living in a country that despite offering some familiar comforts, is after all, different in the vast majority of respects. Sometimes it is applaud-worthy just to get through the day fed, watered and not flattened in Bali’s vehicular version of Frogger. AND 2) Who the hell sees an adorable kitten or puppy and immediately perceives them in light of their true rabies-carrying-vector-reality? Other than the WHO of course. Clearly not me.
But since I am a semi-professional self-flagellator, my initial reaction was mindless hysteria… “ohshitohshitohshit” followed swiftly by predictable self-condemnation... “Good job moron, congrats on sealing your rabid future of jaws-gnashing, hallucinatory death.” Breathing heavy anxious breaths, I shook Jakub awake and announced that I needed to go straight-away to the hospital, that I may even need to get a flight to Jakarta or Singapore, because I was just bitten by a kitten and needed rabies treatment ASAP.
The funny thing about panic is it’s contagious even - or especially - when likely unwarranted. Jakub’s drowsy incredulity at my panicked proclamation rapidly succumbed to the power of the ultimate purveyor of fear and lies - WebMD.com. After conducting his own research, not only did Jakub agree that I needed to go to the hospital, but after reflecting that furious puppy licks back in Ubud had come into contact with his chronically bitten cuticles warranted he go as well.
So that’s how we found ourselves back at the tourist hospital for the second time in less than one month. Once admitted, when asked why we were there, we sheepishly held photos of both Dingus and that puppy from Ubud up to the doctor’s discerning gaze as he tried to make out the microscopic puncture wound on my index finger. To his extreme credit, he managed to treat our concerns with dignity and respect, carefully validating our fears while informing us that kitten-induced rabies was about as likely as getting bonked in the head by a wayward meteorite (in nice doctor talk of course). Nonetheless, we all agreed that getting the vaccination would be a prudent, mostly precautionary move (aka let’s move these hysterical tourists along as quickly as possible) and that I should monitor the animal that bit me - aka Dingus - for at least seven days to ensure she didn’t succumb to death by rabies. (*** Sidenote and perhaps worthy of a separate blog post - the cost of a full rabies vaccination course in the US can cost upwards of $3,000. The cost here for four rabies vaccinations (granted, without the addition of the rabies immune globulin) is around $200 - just sayin.)
So that’s how I ended up with a mandate to keep this little beast alive at all costs for one week’s time - a mission I adopted with utmost gravity and zeal. But if I’m gonna be honest about it, this was a welcomed narrative to justify my already existing desire to shelter and protect this little fur baby against all the terrors of this cruel world. Doctor’s orders folks.
The first part of this mission was to address any underlying medical challenges that plagued Dingus with the operating theory that if she was going to die of rabies, at least she’d have a clean bill of health otherwise. This in turn led me to stuffing her in a box to transport her to a 24 vet clinic in the middle of the night by taxi - a box which she promptly escaped from, climbing up my shoulders and sinking her talons into the back of my neck, refusing to let go as I tried to continue my casual conversation with the driver. Shockingly, Dingus was not well behaved at the vet’s office either, lunging at and almost biting the kind doctor’s fingers when offered solid food for most likely the first time in her short life. I left with an assortment of medications and the knowledge that I was determined to help Dingus survive, one way or another.
Since that day, our lives (mine intentionally, Jakub’s by proxy) have condensed into a routine of feeding, medicating, protecting and cuddling this precocious little beast. Twice a day, I squirt antibiotics into her protesting mouth and maintain a vigilant watchful eye on all villa visitors to ensure she is not mistreated, intentionally or otherwise. I have grown accustomed to her astonishingly varied vocal range, which fluctuates from a loud commanding squawk to a questioning squeak to loving mewl depending on her mood, message and energy level. Never met quite such a chatty cat. Jakub has nicknamed her the “Balinese work support cat” who “ensures no work can be done on her watch,” as she alternates between furiously attacking his computer screen to passing out in his lap until his legs fall asleep. At night, I cradle her in my lap, stroking her upturned baby bat chin as her eyes glimmer with the night sky above.
The question of what to do with Dingus after her seven day quarantine has been gnawing at me since the get-go. Anxiety at her future pools in my stomach as I try to sleep at night and manifests itself in uneasy dreams of her surrounded by thousands of tough street cats or watching her float away wearing only a tiny life preserver. Pipin has reassured me that one of the young men that works here has agreed to adopt her within the next week but still...her fate feels unacceptably uncertain.
When I scooped her up that day from underneath that motorscooter, I became hers and she became mine. Even just for a little while. But I struggle to come to terms with what that means in a country where homeless dogs and cats are endemic and I am just a passerby. Dingus’ vulnerability and also her tenacity inspires a deep protectiveness on my part, made all the more intense by the general disregard I observe here for the suffering of animals. And though I may bemoan this characteristic of the Balinese people for either cultural or religious reasons I do not yet understand, I think, more accurately, I’m struggling with the bigger reality faced by the vast majority of people in the world - the needs of human beings will always supercede the pain of suffering animals, particularly in a place where tomorrow’s meal is not guaranteed. How could it not? But for individuals like myself, coming from a cultural context where we provide health insurance to our animals while thousands of people go without, while we fret over the emotional lives of our pets and barely bat an eyelash over prescriptions of puppy prozac, it is a hard circle to square. It’s also quite possible that the reasons so many of us spend our hard earned dollars on protecting and cherishing our little furry friends to almost comical lengths are in direct proportion to how powerless we all feel to solve society’s bigger woes - waaay easier to nurse my little Dingus back to health than contend with the vastly more complex reality of hungry children and and plastic-choked waterways. We Americans, after all, love instant gratification and a good happy ending, ambiguity and open-ended problems, not so much.
So as the calendar winds down to the end of our probationary period, my heart remains troubled at what will become of my tiny ward. With each passing day she expands into the space around her, joyously unfolding from the sad, protective crouch we found her in. Her eyes have grown wide and alert as her immune system tackles whatever challenges it started with. She races up and down the slick tile halls of our villa and wows us with her nimble acrobatic leaps and tumbles. It is hard to walk a step without finding Dingus scooting underfoot and clamouring to climb into your lap. I try to take solace in knowing that our kindness and love have helped this tiny baby flourish, even for a short time. Sometimes I think that is the lesson before me, to dwell in this cross-section of time and space, to love the shit out of her and the moment we are in, and then learn how to let her go. That’s all I can do. That’s all any of us can do in the end.
Afterward: Moments ago, Dingus rode away on a motorscooter with her new Dad to her new life. The ending came quickly and I should have never doubted Pipin all along. Dingus has a new home and a new family with a little boy who can hopefully keep pace with her wild ways. ‘Tis a happy ending and I am immensely grateful and relieved she will have a shot at growing up. The villa though, feels a bit quiet, my heart on the other hand, does not.