We often bring family and friends to see the large ships in the harbour at Garrucha waiting to load their only export now - gypsum. My brother-in-law, an ex merchant seaman, enjoys telling us which country the ships waiting to load in the dock are from and how the gypsum is mined in Sorbas and brought down from the hills via a fleet of lorries. All Interesting stuff.
The port is also home to a small fishing fleet and has around 300 moorings for leisure boats. We love to wander around the marina, daydreaming about which boat we would like when we win the lottery, before visiting one of the many fish restaurants dotted along the harbour.
The other day, Mike and I were doing our usual walk and fantasising about the boat we would choose to sail the Mediterranean when Mike decided to visit the Tabacos before we went for lunch. We walked up the steps from the harbour, passing fishing nets with their yellow floats spread on the ground and harbour workers sitting in the shade of some outbuildings enjoying a fag break. Waiting for him on a bench overlooking the harbour, I noticed something stuck to the heel of my sandal. It looked like soggy newspaper with shredded bits dangling from the bottom. There was something else amongst it though; something pink and wet glistening in the sun. My stomach turned over as I realised I must have trodden on the remains of a mouse. I shot up off the seat and wiped my sandal on the grass underneath a tree next to the bench. Something white and shaped like a miniature dog biscuit landed in the grass...... it was a tiny bone. 
When Mike arrived back, we scraped the remains off the grass into the paper bag his cigarettes had been in and dropped them into a bin, all thoughts of having lunch gone. I just wanted to go home, have a shower and scrub my foot. Going back down the steps to the car on the quayside a sudden movement caught my eye. I looked down to see a tiny heart shaped face peeking out from a drainpipe, its green eyes wide with terror. A kitten. I grabbed Mike's arm and pointed. noticing that his gaze was drawn to something else on the ground. The half scavanged body of what we assume now to be one of the kitten's siblings was lying with its entrails splayed across the path. What remaining fur it had was grey, white and wet .A bit like soggy newspaper. The full horror sunk in; this must be what I had trodden in on my way up the stairs. I wanted to be sick. I also wanted to grab the terrified creature from the pipe and take it home. But what about its other siblings, if there were any left? We couldn't rescue them all so I'm ashamed to say that we did nothing.
I'm not a squeamish person nor am I naive to the dark side of life on the docks. I come from the Merseyside area of the UK and most of my family worked in shipping, either in the shipping offices on the Liverpool waterfront or in the merchant navy. I also subscribe to Darwin's theory of evolution (but not his views on womens' role in it I hasten to add!). I've just never had evidence of The Survival of the Fittest hanging from my foot before. Believe me, it adds a whole new perspective.
Feral cats are a huge problem here in Spain and there are some excellent charitable organisations working tirelessly offering rescue and neutering programmes and re-homing where possible. What can the rest of us do? I'm not sure. Donate cash? Volunteer in the catteries and kennels? Offer foster homes? One thing is for sure. The terrified face of that innocent little creature will haunt my dreams for a very long time.
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A couple on the small urbanisation opposite ours have recently aquired an Alsation type puppy. A lovely little thing. Problem is, they leave it outside on the steps of their duplex when they go out. It's about 600 metres from us and we can see the poor thing wandering up and down the outside steps over and over again and barking frantically at the front door for its owners. There are gates on each end of the staircase so it can't wander off and its owners appear to care for their dog in every other way when they are home, so how can they leave it to pine like this?
The strange thing is, our two don't respond to the constant barking. I guess they are able to distinguish an anguished woof from an aggressive one. They usually sit upright, their heads on one side, listening and watching through the window. 
Ok; we leave our dogs sometimes when we go out and it's too hot to take them in the car. They are left inside in the cool with water on offer, the radio on and a window to nose out of. They have a routine. As soon as we leave, they head off into the bedroom with the toys that they sleep with and snooze till we get back. We know this because we hear them yawning from the bedroom when we come back up the path - and find their toys on the bed. The neighbours tell us that they don't bark when we are out which is a relief to know. Not only do we not want them to be distressed but we don't want to annoy the neighbours either.
Anyone thinking of moving out to Spain permanently should go for it. Don't hesitate. You will love the people, the food, the culture and the relaxed pace of life. We have always had an excellent service from the vet in Garrucha and the dog groomer there is wonderful. Just be aware, though, that the Spanish, generally, have a very different attitude to animals that takes some adjusting to. It's 7am as I write this and already there is a pitiful howl coming from a dog in the distance; its owners probably having left for work. You can either tolerate it or, if you find it too uncomfortable..... and if you are able of course..... maybe do something to help.
I wish we had.