I hate the social pressure forcing everyone in Istanbul to love and tolerate street cats in places where the felines shouldn’t be.
This may be an unpopular article, but enough is enough.
Specifically, my gripe today is the ignorance of business owners, big and small, that pushes a normally peaceful and furry creature-loving person to the disgusted, frustrated edge.
I have lived in Istanbul for 20 years. So in street cat terms, I have seen thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. They are everywhere and usually keep to themselves, watching you with an aloof air of superiority while freely roaming every corner of the city. Honestly, when they only meander the sidewalks, you could compare these loners to the pigeons or seagulls that also populate the streets.
So what happened on Christmas Eve, you may be wondering. Heading to church for a special Mass after work, I had stopped by my favorite cafe for a cozy pumpkin spice latte. The only customer, I sat inside the dimly lit, three-table venue to order. Across from me, perched like he owned the place, was a mini-lion-size gray tabby on the plush bench.
We acknowledged each other with a glance.
And like I have done hundreds of times before, I quietly prayed under my breath that he would just stay there.
“Please don’t come over to me,” I thought, and actually whispered the unfriendly plea to him aloud.
His ear twitched. He definitely heard me, sensing my disdain. But, like every Istanbul feline allowed in places they shouldn’t be, he was a tiny entitled terrorist. And, like most of his kind, he knew immediately I didn’t want a new friend. So, naturally, the egotist leapt on the table where I would drink my coffee, looked me in the eye and demanded love. I gently shooed him off.
Piffed, he hopped to the table next to me, flicking his tail and sizing me up.
At this point, I was writing off this cafe, remembering how many times I had set my fork on a napkin on the table where he was now sitting. Let’s take a second to put this grossness in perspective: This city-strolling cat is the equivalent of me taking off my shoes after wearing them in public toilets and on sidewalks and setting them tread-down directly on the table, then serving you a piece of chocolate cake and a latte on the unsanitized surface. Bon appetite.
But I said nothing. It’s normal here, for whatever reason. People "love" the cats, and those who "don’t" are labeled heartless. I swallowed my discomfort, simmering silently to keep the festive holiday evening drama free. I had thought this boutique cafe had better standards. Goodbye, future perfect pumpkin spices.
The barista is notoriously slow – and was oblivious to the developing cold war.
And then the standoff escalated.
Without warning, the cat hopped from the table directly onto my lap – and was trying to settle in for a nice, long sit. Apparently, the clean soft cushions on the bench weren’t luxurious enough. Ever so kindly and patiently, as one must do with creatures armed with sharp claws, I proceeded to slowly push him off my favorite skirt. In protest to my gentle nudge, he vindicively dug in his claws, through my thick skirt and my tights, and directly into my thigh. So deep, one of his demon-possessed talons got stuck. We had to cooperate in a brief but tense truce to untangle it.
I was now sporting a bleeding scratch. All I had wanted was a terror-free cup of coffee during a nice night out.
Already injured and willing to risk violence to emancipate myself from the tyrant, I stood up. He finally jumped to the floor.
I asked the cafe owner, with a tiny bit of hope, if it was her cat. No, she said. But she explained it wanders around the neighborhood all the time, in and out of businesses, so it – likely – doesn’t have rabies. How comforting. I also realized my tetanus booster was long overdue, also not-so-excellent news.
The once-a-year holiday service I was planning to attend and looking forward to for weeks would begin in an hour at this point.
There are special wards in emergency rooms in Istanbul to handle encounters with stray animals. That’s right. That is how frequently they threaten public safety. So I jumped in a taxi and headed to the closest public hospital, 15 minutes away, where, since I have insurance, the vaccinations are free. Without insurance, each rabies shot would cost between TL 400 and TL 2,000 ($11 and $46), depending on where you went for treatment. A full round of treatment requires four shots over a few weeks.
In the emergency room, I waited behind a man who had apparently cut off his thumb. His hand was bandaged with blood dripping everywhere. The person behind me was coughing like they were dying of the plague. There were several others of rather greenish color leaning against the wall waiting for service. At least two babies were screaming somewhere down a hallway. It was the exact opposite of the jolly atmosphere I was hoping for that evening, though I suppose the red blood could qualify as the right Santa-ish color, at least.
The nurses registered me and pointed to the office where four other people were also waiting for shots after encounters with stray animals – two more arrived as I left 15 minutes later. I can only imagine how many file through daily, their plans also put on hold to avoid a deadly disease that makes you foam at the mouth.
I will get three more rabies shots over the next few weeks, and now my tetanus is up to date. I guess I will never forget the day I had it done in 10 years when it expires again.
I made it to the Christmas service with 10 minutes to spare, new vaccinations and TL 500 less in my pocket for taxis to and from the hospital.
I’m an American who grew up with lots of different animals, large and small, cats, dogs, cows and horses. Admittedly, dogs are my favorites, and fair enough, I really don’t like cats, tame or feral. And to be frank, I don’t have to like them.
However, love or hate, there is no doubt that there are appropriate spaces for them to be, or not to be.
Business owners in the city have forgotten that safety and health are more important than the comfort of strays. The cafe's laid-back attitude is the norm. Stray cats, in particular, are allowed to freely wander inside, yes inside, supermarkets, malls, cafes, restaurants, even sometimes butchers or bakeries. It is not uncommon to see a stray cat curled up on a new $100 sweater in a Gap store in a luxury mall, walking across an indoor bar or restaurant table, or underfoot as you carefully use sanitary tongs to bag a fresh simit. There is irony in me trying to keep baked goods clean, as an itchy cat happily scratches fur everywhere just 2 feet from the fresh bread anyway. Sure, the cafe table likely gets wiped down regularly, but is it every time the cat jumps up onto it? It was not cleaned while I waited for my coffee, so the answer is clearly no.
The gimmick-turned-social-pressure that Istanbul’s street cats are cute and the city’s adorable mascots has been pushed so far that even trying to kindly reject a cat’s pushy advances gets you dirty looks and judgmental stares. The issue is human-related. The cat was just being its moody self. The business owner prioritized the animal over her human customer’s comfort and safety. And it happens hundreds of times across the city every day.
