A few years ago, I was invited to lunch at a friend of a friend’s place on the outskirts of Valencia. The setting was charmingly typical of the region: a simply built single-storey house in an acre-sized plot that doubled up as an extensive vegetable garden, chicken coup and outdoor eating area.
In between courses, a small cat timidly emerged from the kitchen. Her caution, our host explained, was due to its recent recovery from bowel surgery, which teed up a discussion about vet bills. To the owner, saving the life of her sole domestic companion was an obvious choice. To her father – an otherwise affable trade union boss who had recently bequeathed her the huerta, complete with its animal population – it was a head-spinning act of sentimental profligacy.
“No cat is worth 500 euros,” he lamented. “It’s just an animal!” With the conversation veering from Spanish into a heated Catalan, much inter-generational handwringing followed.