THE CAT WHO WOULDN’T LET HER SLEEP
I get calls at all hours.
For some reason, people think that if you’re a veterinarian, you’re also responsible for insomnia, heartbreak, and existential crises—especially at two in the morning, when a cat is lying on your chest and you’re barely conscious.
But Carmen’s call came in the middle of the day.
Still, there was something nocturnal in her voice. A fatigue that didn’t belong to the hour.
“Good morning, is this Pedro’s clinic?” she asked cautiously.
“Yes. Pedro speaking.”
“My name is Carmen. I have an appointment today. I have a problem with my cat. He won’t let me sleep.”
That phrase—won’t let me sleep—can mean anything.
Fleas. Anxiety. Jealousy.
Or something much stranger.
THE “NURSE” NAMED MARCOS
Carmen arrived like someone entering a church—quiet, almost apologetic.
Early fifties. Carefully styled hair. A coat meant for being seen, not errands. A handbag that looked like it carried her entire life.
She placed the carrier gently on the exam table.
“This is Marcos,” she said. “Although at night, he’s less of a gentleman and more of a nurse on duty.”
Two enormous yellow eyes stared at me from inside. A large gray cat, dignified and unimpressed.
I opened the carrier. Marcos stepped out slowly, assessed me, decided I wasn’t a threat, and turned away with quiet authority.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me about this nurse.”
