Confronting Life and Death
HAVANA TIMES – Manolín was my youngest cat, and my favorite. Cowardly and very sweet, he was by my side almost all the time. I entrusted him to Providence after struggling for a while with what seemed to be pneumonia. When he stopped eating altogether—he was always finicky and had to be separated from the others to eat—I rushed to the vet. She told me sadly that she had nothing to give him, but if I could get antibiotics, I should give them to him. A friend suggested I give him honey too, and I didn’t stop giving him milk with a syringe, by force.
A few days later, the vet came by and we were able to give him some injections I had faith in. Later, while talking, she told me she got the medications from another vet who traveled to Mexico and brought them back. She didn’t trust the local veterinary clinic. She didn’t want to badmouth her colleagues, but she had doubts—those same medications could be adulterated at the clinic. Just like what happens in human hospitals.
Frankly, I didn’t want to go to that place and still don’t. I feel like they mock me. Once they made me bring my cat in more than once to get her sterilized. In the end, I had to go to a private vet on the other side of town. When a friend told me he needed to sterilize his dog and was going to the clinic, I shared my experience. My friend spoke plainly:
“Lien,” he said, “I show up, open my wallet, and ask how much it is. I always bribe, I always get things done.”
And he’s right. In Cuba, everything is a bribe—bus terminals, legal procedures, healthcare, education… even the tiniest things. So, of course, our veterinary clinic is no exception. And it hurts me deeply, because I’ve always had many cats and dogs. I’m well aware that in times of crisis, our animals suffer the most. The strays—better not even mention them.
Feeding them is one of my biggest daily challenges, I think. When we’re lucky, lots of pigs are slaughtered near where we live (one of the most common illegal businesses), and I can get lungs, hearts, spleens, kidneys—but other times, they’re scarce, like everything else. Then I buy fish and cook it with rice to stretch it. If there’s no fish, the rice goes to the dogs because the cats won’t eat it plain. Sometimes I buy sweet potatoes, and that’s for everyone, though the cats don’t love it either.
If I can’t find anything, I know that day I’ll have less food for myself. I have to share it with the family I’ve formed with other species—and I’ve chosen it to be that way. When Manolín got sick, I gave up a chicken drumstick or two for him. Doing this in one of the deepest crises in our history, one that feels never-ending, might even sound sacrilegious to some.
But I don’t regret it. It just makes me hate the dictatorship I live under even more. A regime we all know—one that has endless reserves for State Security, electricity for international tourism, and anything else that serves its interests. Outside of that, nothing exists—not even the very people it “governs.” Controls, I’d say.
My rage grows every time I go out to find food for my cats and dogs and come back empty-handed. Then you hear that your neighbors, the ones who recently left the country, are now working in places where pet food is produced. And I’m left stunned, probably with a shocked look on my face, exclaiming, “My God! And here, there’s not even food for people!”
The pain comes back, the resentment toward those in power who, whenever a community starts producing something—like tobacco or some other product—step in to “bring order.” And that “order” means so many rules, demands, taxes, and restrictions that in the end, people give up what they had wanted to work for. Not to mention that you could be the most productive man or woman in the world, but if you dare to express an opinion that doesn’t align with the official position, all your worth as a person vanishes, and you’ll be treated like scum in need of rehabilitation.
Because of all this that I face daily, and the awareness I’ve had for years about the struggle to feed our non-human sons and daughters, I deeply admire animal protectors. Because it’s a battle without truce. Because in Cuba, everything is expensive, and the kind of sacrifice that might be significant in other places feels three times as hard on this island.
When I said goodbye to Manolín I didn’t allow myself to think “one less mouth to feed,” but rather, “he won’t go hungry anymore.” May the journey he’s now on take him to kinder, more compassionate worlds. And may we who still have to wrestle with this reality learn to do it, within our means, in the best way possible. As a friend from the Neurotics Anonymous group once told me: “This is done with faith.”
Read more from the diary of Lien Estrada here on Havana Times.