Following the death of Dante, September 2025 gave us even more reason to hate it when, a week later, a driver fell asleep at the wheel of his car and ploughed head-on into our van.  Then two weeks later we returned to Almodovar Del Rio to find that Sparky was dead, poisoned. 

It has been a spectacularly shit month.

The good news is that we were able to walk away from the crash, as were the dogs.  We are alive only because I had started to slow down as we approached the bend towards the village we have to pass through and where I know there is a 50kph limit.  If, like many idiot drivers here in Andalusia, I had still been doing 90 then I very much doubt we would have been able to go back to work and I doubt if the dogs would have survived with just frayed nerves and a sore leg in the case of Dora.

Sonalee took the brunt of the collision because I was trying to avoid the wanker who just careened into our lane even as, at that split second, I knew we weren’t going to make it.  Needless to say, I have replayed those seconds over and over in my mind ever since in a pointless effort to understand if I could have done anything differently. 

Sonalee went straight to hospital in an ambulance as a precaution.  I was less damaged and so I had the task of waiting for the police – who were very good – with three dogs in the blazing sun all the while trying to clear my head from the effects of the airbags smacking us in the face and the seat belt cracking at least one of my ribs. 

Let me tell you now; the noise of any crash will astonish you and stay with you for a long long time.  It was incredible. 

Anyway, I was immediately given Victim Papers by the police who said it was clear what had happened.  The driver wasn’t drunk, apparently.  The rozzers wanted to take him away but the paramedic insisted he go to hospital – in the same ambulance as Sonalee.  We think he will not be allowed to drive for a long time.  He deserves no sympathy whatsoever and I hope he suffers for what he did.

If that sounds nasty it’s because it is.  I’m still angry.  I’m angry because we always follow the rules of the road and are always sensible unlike so many morons and fuckwits who drive around here.  It’s not fair.  We didn’t deserve that. 

And then when I’m not angry I’m relieved.  Sonalee is receiving physio on a shoulder that refuses to get better quickly but the fact remains that we are all still alive.  We survived a head-on collision. 

The other insurance company have accepted full liability, which the police said they would have to.  We’ll be getting another van like the Berlingo because, clearly, it’s a very safe vehicle for us and the animals.  It’s a total pain to do that and it’s messing up what was supposed to be a new life in another new town.

As did finding Sparky dead when we came back.  There are a lot of rats in Almodovar and we think he probably ate a rat that had been poisoned.  He wouldn’t have been in pain when he died, for which we are thankful.  He would have just gone to sleep where we found him under the bed. 

We are no longer letting Sambol up onto the roof area of the rented house in Almodovar where Sparky liked to explore.  We’re also bringing him back with us to the village every weekend because he’s less of a moaner about travelling than Sparky.

My God, could he moan.  On one of the 11 hour drives to Portugal he meowed for 10 of them, complaining.  And when he complained, he complained loud.  He complained when Sonalee was slow in giving him his breakfast; complained about not being given enough ham as a treat and complained about being disturbed on our terrace here – his favourite place in the world.

He was a Moroccan street cat but a rather embarrassing one since he displayed none of the bravura expected of a Moroccan alley cat.  He had been dumped in the school we worked at in Rabat and stayed with Sonalee during her year alone during covid where he invited lots of local cats to eat with him. 

He was less than happy at being brought here to the village at first and he was even less happy when we moved to Portugal a few months later.  At the farm we initially stayed at he disappeared for 5 days and then jumped through the skylight one night,  demanding food.

He liked the flat we stayed in in Lisbon.  It was on a quiet street where he could lounge around and complain to four different old ladies who fed him daily food including fresh sardines.  He got fat. 

He was okay in Colmenar Viejo but the road was a bit busier and there were no old ladies to dupe.  He loved it when we returned to Fuente Tojar.  Then he spent two years on and off in El Higueron outside Cordoba where he complained a lot whenever the dogs appeared – he didn’t like the dogs at all. 

In between that he disliked our holiday in Portugal but did like the extra ham he was given. 

He was a cat  who didn’t like being picked up but he did like sleeping on the bed with us when the dogs were unable to interrupt our sleep.  He liked cuddles.  And he liked ham. 

And, like Dante, he was a traveller.  Not many cats have lived on two different continents and three countries. 

One of our favourite paintings on our walls is the one Jan did of Sparky.  She really captured his handsomeness – he knew he was good looking.

His death has been another horrible loss that has added to the grief and trauma that came so recently before.  Our family has been diminished and we all, Sambol included, feel it in the background of our lives as we try to return to something like normality.

We’ll get there, eventually, but I think there will be quite a lot of tears until we do.

Ayubowan

Hasta luego, inshallah

Ciao

Paul