In these days of
one-child families, it’s not surprising that pet ownership has
become increasingly fashionable in China. In many
families, a spoiled canine or feline serves as a substitute
for a little brother or sister. Of course, elderly
Chinese gentlemen have raised birds from time immemorial; the
old codgers and their fine feathered friends are a regular
fixture of city life in China. But nowadays, lonely old
folks are turning to pets for companionship in ever-greater
numbers. Status conscious upwardly mobile types take
great pride in plopping down a couple thousand RMB for a
pure-bred papered pup that they can show off with the same
aplomb as their overstuffed couch and shiny new car.
Regardless of the reason, Shanghai is full of people-- like
us--who have a beloved creature that has become integral to
life itself. Hence our horror when our Fritz the Cat
plummeted to earth from the sixteenth floor of our apartment
building. I had observed Fritz, in an unusually bold
move, climb from our balcony into the window of the next door
neighbours. Said neighbours denied having seen him, but
as it turned out, they had indifferently defenestrated
him. No kitty corpse was discovered, and after two days
of frantic search we finally found him in a crevice under the
building, hiding from the pouring rain, injured, dirty, very
scared-- and very much alive.
At our less-than-expert examination, Fritz appeared to have
a broken leg and a couple broken ribs. Cat in arms and a
large wad of cash in pocket, we plunged into the world of
Shanghai’s veterinary establishment. I use the term
loosely.
The most conveniently located animal hospital is at the
entrance of the Bird and Flower Market (Hua niao shicheng) by
People’s Square. It resembled a rural hospital: not
entirely sanitary, under-equipped and poorly staffed, and
promising a long wait for service that is at best mediocre and
overpriced. After spending an hour watching three owners
of a pampered Pekinese debate the creature’s flea issues, and
after waiting another twenty minutes as the doctor chatted on
the phone, we were brusquely informed that the facility was
not equipped to handle real problems. We were, however,
given the address of a real pet hospital.
The dubiously titled Shanghai Naughties Animal Infirmary
is, like all of the city’s half dozen or so pet hospitals,
located near the Shanghai Zoo (bus 925 from People’s
Square). Perhaps they figure that only in Gubei do
people have enough money to splurge on such things. The
place is hard to miss, and initial appearances are as dubious
as the place’s name. The building is a brightly coloured
fake castle, and the imitation Disney theme continues with the
101 Dalmatians all over the place.
Past the pet store in front and into the infirmary, all of
our doubts were erased. The place is clean, modern,
efficient and friendly. The staff affectionately fusses
over every new creature that comes through the door. The
place was crowded with pets and their people, many of the
former listlessly attached to IVs. The reception desk is
staffed by a collection of busty young women in tight
T-shirts, though these charms are likely lost on the
four-footed patients.
The pet store in front is also interesting, with a greater
array of feline and canine breeds available than often seen
elsewhere in China. They can also help track down other
breeders and dealers if their menagerie doesn’t have what
you’re looking for. Through a window is a grooming
set-up where they were dyeing a small army of French poodles
in various shades of pastel.
The medical staff is entirely Taiwanese, as is probably the
ownership. A certificate on the wall for one of the
doctors declared that he had studied veterinary science in the
U.S. It was not, however, clear as to whether he
actually graduated.
Our turn came for the
preliminary examination, and we delicately placed the less
than thrilled Fritz on the table. The doctor asked us what
happened.
“He fell.?
“How far did he fall??
“From the
sixteenth floor.?
In a scene reminiscent of a bad TV drama, everyone in the
crammed examining/waiting room turned their heads and echoed
in unison, “The sixteenth floor?!?
Taken to a back room for an X-ray, we observed that the
hospital compound was quite large, although not all as
sparklingly clean as the front room. After waiting maybe
ten minutes, the X-ray was processed, and Fritz was discovered
to suffer nothing more than a dislocated hip. The vet
informed us that this sort of condition is better healed on
its own over time. It might get better, or he might be
gimpy for life. An operation would prove messy, expensive,
and, if not done properly, the cat would lose all use of the
leg.
Our total bill came out to an affordable RMB220: 20 for
registration fee, 80 for the X-ray, and 120 for the packet of
kitty pain-killers. Considering how much I’d been
expecting to pay, I gratefully doled out the cash. My
companion insisted we’d been ripped off. “And all they did was
look at him!?Certainly, they do good business, with around one
to two hundred beasts a day, mostly much more ill than
ours. If they’d really wanted to cheat our money, they
would’ve insisted on an expensive surgery. Fritz was
back to himself in a week, leaping about and eating twice his
body weight in potatoes every day. After all, 220 kuai is a
small price to pay for peace of mind.
The
Shanghai Naughty Animal Infirmary is located at 2293 Hongqiao
Lu. Telephone: 6268-6663
