Cat Teeth

On caring, carrying, and the quiet work of loving a pet

Getting my cat into the carrier wasn’t the hard part. That, I know how to do after years of practice.

The hardest part was the one-hour Uber ride along the périphérique, heading south toward a veterinary hospital in Vélizy-Villacoublay, a suburb I hadn’t heard of until a few weeks ago. That’s where one of France’s top veterinary dental surgeons practices—and it was he who delivered the news I’d been dreading last Thursday.

My morning had been productive with tasks crossed off lists and a small sense of accomplishment building. But by early afternoon, I’d slipped into waiting mode: washing dishes, straightening a pillow, unable to focus. I couldn’t immerse myself in anything knowing what lay ahead—the moment I’d have to transform from caretaker to captor, then endure an hour with her wailing beside me as we drove to the dental consultation.

Stuck in her carrier, and not happy. This was in the specialized waiting area for cats (no dogs allowed).

Why am I telling you about my cat’s teeth?

Because I want to share the reality of living in Paris, not just the delicious food and beautiful sunsets, but also the parts that mirror any life, anywhere: the mundane errands, the exhaustion, the waits in rooms that smell like antiseptic and anxiety. Sometimes, Paris means hauling your terrified cat to a suburb in an Uber as the city recedes behind you.

My cat cried the whole way, a sound both accusatory and pleading. My driver, patient and quiet, kept glancing back sympathetically. When we arrived, he wished me bon courage (good luck) with genuine warmth.

With white walls, spacious waiting rooms, and an atmosphere of precision, the hospital was sleek, and the veterinary dental surgeon was kind—professional, but not cold. He methodically explained everything to me: one tooth definitely needs extraction, but most likely more, depending on what he finds. She’ll need general anesthesia. They’ll take x-rays while she’s under, and then proceed to surgery. The bill? Likely around €2,000, possibly more. I nodded. I asked questions in a version of French I rarely use—clinical and focused. I wrote things down.

The spacious main waiting area of the large veterinary hospital.

The Uber ride home stretched even longer at an hour and twenty minutes. My driver was from Morocco, and when I mentioned having once eaten grilled fish in Larache, his eyes lit up. We talked about the coastline between Rabat and Tangier while my cat alternated between silence and desperate attempts to claw her way out of the carrier. When we finally arrived home, she was frantic, her trust temporarily severed. I let her pace around as I told her she was safe, though she probably didn’t believe me.

My cat’s tooth extraction surgery is scheduled for May 6. We’ll return to the veterinary hospital early in the morning and spend all day there. I’ll wait while she’s unconscious, then disoriented, and maybe in a bit of pain.

Here’s what I’m taking from this ordeal: I’m fortunate in the ways that matter. France has excellent, affordable veterinary care. Things are orderly here, with clear instructions, meticulous paperwork, and a system that functions. I’m grateful, too, for the quiet kindness of two drivers who made a challenging day feel a little less isolating.

And I’m reminded that Paris isn’t just the city in all the photos. It’s a vast, complex place, full of office parks, factories, and suburbs that feel worlds away from the tourist destinations. In the little corner of northeastern Paris where I live, things feel intimate and manageable. But the city extends far beyond my daily routines—bigger than I typically allow myself to remember.

I snapped this photo as we waited for our Uber home to pick us up. The French suburbs kind of remind me of American suburbs.

This isn’t a romantic post. It contains none of the charming anecdotes people expect from expatriate life in Paris. I love my cat deeply, and it’s difficult navigating this kind of worry in a language that isn’t my strongest. But I’m capable in ways I couldn’t have imagined before moving here. I’m managing complicated French medical vocabulary. I’m navigating unfamiliar systems. And, most importantly, I’m advocating for a creature who depends entirely on me.

When this is all over, my cat will have a few fewer teeth. But she’ll be okay, and so will I. Because that’s the unspoken contract of loving anything: we carry each other through the ordinary suffering that makes up a life, whether in Paris or anywhere else.

Sometimes, the most profound acts of love aren’t the big, grand gestures, but simply showing up: sitting in Parisian traffic with a howling cat, writing down dental terms in French, calculating hours of freelance work while agreeing to whatever it’ll cost.

Not because it’s extraordinary, but because it’s what we do for those we’ve chosen to love.


Merci for reading.
—Victorine