The Cat Doctor
One could say he took the…Hippo-cat-ic Oath?
I was coming home from a walk one morning when I heard a cat meowing. It’s Istanbul, a cat meowing is nothing new. But some people were standing around, watching. There was a big black van parked on the street, and the meowing was coming from underneath.
An older man was trying to look under the van. He had a prosthetic limb attached from the knee and looked very concerned. He looked at me and was pointing under the van. I’m not sure what he wanted, he couldn’t speak English, but I assume he wanted me to look as well.
Under the van was a very small orange kitten, sitting behind the back tire. It was meowing for help. Something looked off, literally: a big piece of fur was hanging off the back of its body but still attached, as if by a string. The kitten then limped out, dragging that clump behind it. That was the fur of its tail. Its tailbone was completely exposed: small, pointy, covered in blood.
It had been run over by the van.
I tried to ask the man what he wanted me to do. He clearly did not speak English, and I spoke zero Turkish. He was making a motion as if to pick up the kitten and bring it over to him. We were on a steep road and I understood it was hard for him to move in general, let alone to bend down and scoop a kitten.
I looked back at him helplessly. I’m sorry, I said, but I’m not picking up that kitten.
I may be an experienced traveler, but I am extremely cautious — almost paranoid — about a lot of things, especially street animals. I know the cats in Istanbul are well-looked-after, but still, I was barely petting them for fear of rabies and diseases; this kitten was gashed wide open.
That said, it was heart-wrenching to see. The man was making motions, almost pleading with me to pick it up. The kitten was crying and confused, its hind legs were bloody too. I wanted to help, but I was too afraid.
The one-legged man hobbled over and sat in his armchair, which was outside his front door. His prosthetic leg was propped on a footstool. Another man soon came over. He saw what was happening, picked up the kitten by its neck and dropped it on the older man’s lap.
The sitting man, whom I’ll now call the Cat Doctor, paid no heed to the blood or the bones or anything. He handled the kitten gingerly, pulled out a small medical kit, and fed a syringe into its mouth.
I stood and watched. For me it was fascinating. But also, it felt like the only thing I could do, as if my concern could possibly compensate. The Cat Doctor then placed the kitten gently on the street. He looked at me and shrugged, as if saying, what can you do? The poor kitten limped off, confused and terrified.
The Cat Doctor then pointed to a sign behind him. In English it read, “Would you like to help by donating a little to feed street cats.”
I winced. I guess I am a bit cynical. When I see signs like this, my first thought jumps to scams — people using handicaps, deformities, hungry children, etc., as a lure for getting money from tourists.
I pulled out a 20-lira note, which in Turkey is barely enough to buy a bottle of water. He accepted the money but looked back a bit pitifully, as if saying, “What the hell is this gonna do.” I’m sorry, I said, it’s all I’ve got — which was a lie — and I went home.
Cats reserve a special place in Istanbul. When Bourdain visited, he spoke with a Turkish poet who said, “The cats were here before us, it’s their city too.”
In Istanbul, cats are everywhere. And unlike strays in other countries, where they’re often crusty-eyed and flea-infested, Istanbul’s cats are clean, clear-eyed, and well-fed. Their coats are silky and full. People pick them up casually as the cats nestle their heads into your neck. When you walk the streets, you see small piles of cat food, and makeshift homes out of cardboard boxes.
Most charmingly, the people here don’t seem to revere the cats. They aren’t gods in disguise, or something holy or religious. They’re simply neighbors, co-inhabitants. Equals.
Two days later, I had some free time before meeting someone, and I felt a nudge to go visit the Cat Doctor.
It was about 10:30am. I’d just hit the ATM, so I brought him a crisp 200-lira note. He took it appreciatively.
I guess it was also feeding time. The Doctor pulled out some treats, which he kept next to his armchair, and before you knew it, he was surrounded by cats. I counted nine, with four to five others observing from a distance: tabby cats, black cats, some kittens, a fiery orange cat, a calico, and many more. There were pans of dry food, treats scattered, and big cartons full of water.
The cats started eating, and the Doctor went to work: yoking up kittens one-by-one by the nape and feeding them medicine with his syringe.
I tried talking to him via Google Translate. Something however was off with the app. Another man came over, he spoke both Turkish and English. We all started talking. I asked him to ask the Doctor, why does he do this?
“I spend a lot of time alone,” the Doctor said. “I have friends, brothers, uncles, cousins, but they’re all too materialistic. I don’t feel like I’m one of them. Maybe I’m anti-social. But I feel a very deep connection with the cats.”
“Even when I need to go to the hospital,” he continued, pointing to his missing leg, “I tell the doctors, ‘Don’t keep me too long. I need to get back to the cats.’”
The other man had to go, and I thanked him for translating. He pointed to the Doctor. “This is a good man,” he said. And he left.
During my first week, even before meeting the Doctor, I heard meowing from the building next door: A kitten was trapped inside. The building was abandoned and all boarded up. For several nights I heard the kitten crying for help, all through the night. It was devastating, even more so because there was nothing I could do.
One day, I was out for a walk and the Doctor excitedly caught my attention. He was sitting across the street from his home and pointing at his front door. In his doorway was a tiny black kitten with messy fur. It was staring blankly at the floor, clearly traumatized. My Translate was now working. The other night, the Doctor said, some neighbors broke into the abandoned building, rescued the kitten, and took him to the Doctor.
We put the Translate away. The Doctor got up from his spot and made his way across the street. This took some time, he could hardly move. He plopped into his armchair, then grabbed the rescued kitten and tried to feed it medicine. The kitten however wanted no part. The Doctor set the kitten back down, then looked at me with his usual shrug. What can you do?
He kicked his footstool out for me and motioned for me to sit. He grabbed two glass bottles of blackberry soda. He popped them open and handed one to me. It was a little warm. There we were, me and the Doctor, sitting with our sodas on this balmy September afternoon.
The thing was, we couldn’t really talk. We were sitting and just kind of looking at each other. After a few minutes of this, he pulled out a small handheld radio. He turned it on and we sipped our sodas silently, listening to Turkish radio.
As much as I appreciated this, I couldn’t fully relax. The footstool was ratty and torn up. God knows what kinds of cats and diseases have touched it. The area in general stank horribly of urine and it was covered — I mean covered — in giant flies. The Doctor himself was quite disheveled, his plaid shirt looked dirty and very used. Even with the soda, I made sure my lips didn’t go too far down the neck of the bottle; I tried to keep them within the area that was previously covered by the cap.
At one point, the Doctor asked me to check on a cat around the corner. I got up and looked. When he couldn’t see me, I poured out nearly all the soda on the side of the street. I came back, finished the last few sips, and thanked him dearly for the drink.
When I got home, I washed my shorts immediately.
I shrugged, helplessly. What can you do?