It started with a plant. Plant needed a pot. Pot needed a shelf. Shelf needed a drill. Drill deposit needed a Spanish bank account.
10:03. Branch smells like printer heat.
“¿Cita?” the greeter asks.
“No. But I have intent.”
Ticket B132.
Posters: couples with keys, a man on a scooter, a piggy bank smiling like it knows a secret. Carmen texts: “Need anything?” Me: “A bank account.”
B132 lights. Desk. Perfect eyeliner. Nameplate: Marta. I hand over passport, NIE, padrón, proof of income. She lays them out like evidence.
“Purpose?”
“Salary. Rent. Life.”
Two options: Sin comisiones (online only) or Confort (small fee, extras). Confort sounds like training wheels. I nod.
“Confort incluye seguros,” she says.
“Great.”
“Home, travel, health… y mascota.”
I hear mascota and think tote bag. We reach the signature page. Spain loves signatures; I write mine until the letters look fake. At the bottom:
“Confirm pet. Name? Species?”
“Cat?”
“Gato,” she types. “Name?”
I do not own a cat. My mouth says, “Miles.”
“Edad?”
“Three.”
“Color?”
“Orange.”
She types naranja, hands me a shiny card, says the PIN and policies will arrive by SMS. I leave with a bank account and a cat that doesn’t exist.
Hardware store. I brandish the card like I forged civilization. Rent drill. Buy plant. Buy a second pot because I panic-buy ceramics now.
At home I drill two holes and learn our wall is geological. Shelf ends up slightly crooked. I call it character.
Tea. Bank app. Balance €50. Icons for bills, transfers, a paw print: Tu Plan Mascota: Miles. Tap. Vaccinations, microchip, vet network, grooming discounts. Cartoon cat in sunglasses.
Carmen knocks. She always appears when I make choices. She eyes the shelf. “Torcido pero simpático.” I show her the app.
“You insured a cat,” she says, delighted. “Dental, wellness, everything.”
“Who is Miles?”
“A clerical error.”
“Cancel?” I ask.
“Tal vez,” she shrugs. “Or borrow a cat.”
Ten minutes later we’re on her balcony where the local nobility (cats) hold court. An orange one appears on the wall.
“Naranjito,” she says. “Takes sardines. Avoids drama.”
I explain, in formal Spanish, his new coverage under an alias. He yawns. Carmen opens a tin. Negotiations improve. We take three photos: indifferent, sniffing finger, vaguely legal. I upload one. App asks if Miles enjoys tuna treats. I click sí like I’ve built a life from nouns.
Ping: “Bienvenido, Miles.”
We return the drill. Deposit lands: Ingreso recibido. I nearly hug the hardware man. I do hug Carmen. She asks if Miles likes rosemary. “He’s open-minded,” I say.
Back home, Naranjito—Miles—inspects the shelf, passes judgment, sits on the sill like a small traffic cone. I transfer €10 to utilities just because I can. The plant leans left. I rotate the pot and pretend that fixes physics.
New ping: “¿Deseas añadir un perro?” Would I like to add a dog. Absolutely not.
Next morning Marta calls: “Confirmación de la mascota. ¿Microchip?”
“En trámite,” I say.
“Perfecto,” she says. Spain’s favourite lie.
Carmen says the policy will make us better people. “You’ll take him to the vet when he loses to a cactus,” she says. “He loses weekly.”
Will the paperwork tolerate borrowed orange forever? Unclear. For now the app shows a healthy cat named Miles and a human with a functioning bank account. The shelf holds. The plant tries. Utilities got their €10 without drama. Progress.
If anyone asks how Spain is going: I’m solvent, the shelf is brave, and my cat is hypothetical but fully insured.
