Animal farmacy

I have a thing for animals. I know what you’re thinking, perv. Elucidation: I like animals (the fiercer of them, admittedly, from a distance) more than I like humans.

My theory is that the measure of how much we’ve evolved as a species is reflected directly in the way we treat our fellow inhabitants of the planet. In plainspeak, this does not bode well for us; you could say we’ve retrogressed beyond hope for repair or redemption. There is something bestial as well as grotesquely human about the suffering some of us are capable of inflicting upon our furry, fanged, feathered brethren; then I realise we humans actually have little or nothing in common with them because we maim and kill for pleasure and this automatically reduces us to a level of sub-creature, a mutant monstrosity that has multiplied ruthlessly all over the planet and plundered its resources to the brink of cataclysm.

But then I catch myself falling all over again for my dog of seven years or stack up the myriad ways my buddy SV loves his cats, and I see a ray where there should be none.

 Another dog day afternoon for Juno, undisputed lion of his realm

SV lives in a central suburb of Bombay (he almost had a major road named after him, but then they found someone more famous and with the same initials). When he moved into his present home, a pregnant cat was thrown in, gratis. She went on to disgorge a pretty kitty litter of three and SV, Italian girlfriend in tow, was instantly sucked into a web of intrigue and maternity care. His transformation from unemployed award-winning photographer to Father of the Month was astonishing, especially to himself.

But then, nature struck. The mother developed liver-related complications and soon passed on her ailment to the kittens. Every day turned into fresh battles with invisible viruses and anal, megalomaniacal vets. What started as a magical, charming experience quickly devolved into a primal, collective bid for survival.

Five months later, SV’s home is a treasure-trove of feline paraphernalia, littered with cat-care encyclopaedias, overspilling packets of cat food, disposable syringes, bottles of pills and strange liquids, a jumble of happy homespun concoctions. He can rattle off an A-Z of antibiotics, rubbish claims that homeopathy is a mere placebo (since it works unerringly on cats) and propound magnificent theories such as “Owls are just cats with wings.”

SV and his pussy posse are visited intermittently by extras from the Discovery Channel. A woebegone, rain-drenched cormorant once waddled into his building and stood in front of his door (he instantly and correctly named the bird as if he’d been waiting for it all his life after watching innumerable back-episodes on Animal Planet). And while we marvelled at how he was turning into an animal/chick magnet, he had to close the door on the thing dejectedly, knowing the cats would make short work of it.

One day we were discussing owls, those enchanted, enigmatic, moon-haloed birds of countless fairy tales. I just happen to possess a wood and glass owl menagerie in my own living room courtesy of my parents, and this is what inspired the subject. The next afternoon a superb golden owl materialised in SV’s courtyard and then, ostensibly shaken and disoriented, agreed to be fed and nursed for a day and even formed a cursory attachment to him. My surprise at this was diminished only by his revelation that he’d subsequently taken the bird to an owl rescue specialist. I repeated this stupidly at least three times. “There’s an owl rescue specialist? An Owl Rescue Specialist? In Bom-fucking-bay?”

Turns out the specialist is all of 17 years old. SV wondered aloud what he must tell his mother. I want to know if there’s a university degree in owl rescuing; how many owls must a man rescue to be known as "that specialist dude"; and what exactly is it they need rescuing from, apart from us. I also want to see what a giant birdcage – aka his house - looks like from the inside.

My next bestseller - wait for it - The Secret Life of an ORS.

On a sober day SV is obsessive enough about his felines, but when he’s drunk he’s another kennel altogether. Apropos the owl – “…he was sooooo beautiful, sooooo much superior to any human, such a work of perfection, he was actually a cat with wings, yada yada ya...”

To one of his kittens (either Manga, Ninja or Shiva)  – “…baby, I’m not possessive, see, I let you go, do your own thing, I love you sooooo much, baby…”

Right there, ladies, lies the answer to your vast, time-honoured existential puzzle, Where have all the cowboys gone?

All hotlines to him are now open. Reply now to avoid disappointment.

p.s. The baby zoo is now on its way to complete recovery, and SV is well aware that within a couple of weeks his babies could be gone to different owners. (Happily he’s attempting to delay their exodus as long as possible.)