Single White Female in Hanoi by Carolyn Shine

it gently back to the table where I place it on my lap and comfort it. Slowly, the staff gather round to watch the Westerner fuss over a cat. It’s an endless source of amusement and disgust to a Hanoian. Before I reluctantly return the kitten to its life on a string, Yvette takes a photo of me slouched maternally over it. This immortalises the moment, so that later I can look at the picture and appreciate that in the throes of my day-five heat exhaustion and bleeding-heart concern, I look closer to death than the cat.
    Before we leave the little café the rooster belts out another almighty crow and looking up, I notice something I’d missed before. It’s the loop of string around his scaly red leg. He’s tied to the branch, unable to move more than about five centimetres. That’s why the seed and water containers were nailed so close to his feet.
    I haven’t yet cottoned onto the Vietnamese penchant for animals-as-decoration. This will only apply to animals that use few resources, essentially birds, fish and sometimes squirrels. Like the birds in tiny cages I’d seen everywhere, the rooster was there for aesthetic reasons. He was a handsome and proud fellow with a beautiful plumage. He looked so good sitting regally above it all on his perch.
    â€˜Eh, ’ave you seen this before?’ We’re on the way back to my place and Yvette is pointing at a dusty little shop. It’s a snake-liquor retailer. Dozens of bottles of snake wine line the display cases. A snake is intact inside each one, suspended in an attitude of attack. There are lots of different varieties, including a cobra. One showy display features about five different-sized snakes nested like Russian dolls. Imagine a medium-sized snake. From its open mouth peers a smaller one enclosed within, its own mouth agape to reveal the gaping head of its still-smaller cousin.
    Cat, chicken, snake: rat-catcher, trophy, aphrodisiac. Animals here have to work for a living, or die for it. One evening, while I’m teaching an advanced English class, a female student will put up her hand to speak.
    â€˜Excuse me teacher, is it true cats in the West do not have to work?’
    The whole class leans forward for my answer, which takes a moment to formulate.
    â€˜Yes. It’s true. They don’t work,’ I tell her. ‘They’re pets and we care about them almost like family.’ There’s an exclamatory swell from the class. The girl who asked the question turns to her friends with an ‘I told you so’ look. The concept of keeping a cat as a pet baffles them.
    Actually, so does the concept of giving a cat a name. When I have enough Vietnamese to ask ‘Name is what?’ I ask it not only of people, with great success, but of cats. Owners look askance at me. There’s a pause that I can’t explain, then a polite answer: ‘Name of cat is Mieu Mieu ’. Seems like a nice name. Strange thing is it’s the name of the first cat, the second, third and the fourth cat I ask it of. ‘ Mieu Mieu ’, it turns out, is the onomatopoeic Vietnamese equivalent of ‘puss’.
    I’m hoping to become inured to the sight of animal suffering while in Vietnam. It seems like a useful ability in life. I figure the more I see, the less I’ll react.
    Back home I say goodbye to Yvette and raid my fridge for something quick and familiar. Some Edam cheese and crackers I found at Nam Bo do the job perfectly. Then I spreadeagle under the fan in my bedroom and return to the welcoming bosom of Morpheus for a couple of hours.
    When I wake up, it’s raining and the furnace heat has again died down. With a sigh, I look up Ralph’s phone number in my little book, and reach for the phone. I said I’d ring him, but now I have an ulterior motive.
    On the way into Nam Bo on Monday, I noticed a woman. She was one of a number of homeless people that live in and around the entrance to the supermarket.