Animals don't lie, unlike some humans
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Manohra returns to the vet while her owner is forced to goto hospital
WHEN I get into the taxi, the taxi driver smiles at me. “This is your lucky day,” he says.
He explains that the owner of his taxi wants him to pay the insurance – “only Bt2,000,” he says – but he doesn’t have it. He’s giving up his taxi and returning home, where his wife is sick, as are his three children. I am his last client forever.
The story is heart-wringing, but I don’t have Bt2,000. Besides, I don’t know if he’s telling the truth.
Actually, he’s not. A few months later, I get into the same taxi, the driver has the same smile, and he says the same thing: “This is your lucky day.”
The idiot doesn’t remember me. I guess all foreigners look alike, or perhaps his scam is financially successful.
I’m sure there are animals who lie, but I’ve never met any. They usually tell you, if you understand their language, that they’re about to become violent. That elephant that killed the tourist recently must have begun to broadcast much earlier to his mahout that he was under stress.
Some people who handle animals forget (or perhaps they’ve never realised) that they have to read the signs of the animals in their charge. A mahout can’t become complacent, especially with an animal as large as an elephant.
Actually, size doesn’t matter. You do have to watch body language, no matter the animal. Little Manohra may be only three kilos, but this cat, in her short life, has been extraordinarily dangerous, at least to me.
Her eyes and her body language tell me when she is going to attack Yoyo. Her eyes focus on her target, her body stiffens, and slowly, she begins to moan.
At this point, I know it’s time to grab a newspaper or a piece of plastic to break eye contact and push her away.
This time, though, I think, “You know, Manohra’s become quieter and gentler in the past few days. I’ll just wave my hand at her.”
Big mistake. Manohra’s emotions can jump from zero to ten in seconds. She sees my hand just as she’s about to throw herself at Yoyo. This time, she uses both claws and teeth, sinking one of her fangs into my finger.
“You idiot!” I yell, but of course, she isn’t the idiot. I am.
In about 30 seconds, her eyes clear, and she realises what she did to my hand. The cat is instantly sorry. Hunching down, though, she is still under great stress. She begins coughing, a deep, hacking cough.
This I should have remembered. Her aggressiveness increases as her chronic infections flare up.
The next day, I arrange for her to be taken to the vet’s. Because of my injury, I can’t carry her. While I visit the doctor, Manohra is taken by motorcycle to the clinic.
Another big mistake. The last time I took her was in a taxi, and her stress increased so quickly that she had problems breathing. The motorcycle is much worse. By the time she reaches the clinic, she is very close to death.
She spends the night in the oxygen chamber. An Xray reveals that she has massive lung infections, as well as fluid surrounding her heart.
For the next few days, the vet gives her all the medication possible to reduce the symptoms. My doctor does the same for me, cleansing my wounds daily, especially the deep bite wound. He also cuts out the dead tissue inside. Oh, immense pain!
Yet both of us have come out much better than that unfortunate tourist, who died. I, of course, have learned my lesson, not to be too pleased with myself to forget what the animals tell me.
Only the taxi driver remains as always. I’ve met him several times since, always with that smile and his good news: “Today is your lucky day!”
