My impression of those fortunate enough to call this fair city their home is that they love their pets. People who keep dogs, for example, will have the paperwork stating pedigree, expensive looking leashes, and lush doggie beds. These dog lovers haunt Gagarina park in the wee dark hours of the morning along with the odd jogger and the still-up love-birds.
More elusive, though no less numerous, are the cat owners who betray their existence only by the evidence that their numbers are large enough to make it worthwhile for our local grocery to stock kitty litter and cat food. I find, however, that I digress.
The pet bazaar (as it is called by us English-speaking outsiders) is tucked in behind some shops across the street from the main bus station in the most elusive way. It is possible to drive by that corner a hundred times and not know it was there unless someone were to point and say to you: "behind those little shops there is a pet Bazaar" and even then, you might not believe them.
For an Almaty bazaar, the pet bazaar is small. A dozen or so rows of stalls under a tin roof covering carry birds, cages, kittens, aquariums, fish, squirrels, pupies in cages and play-pens, and numerous other critters whose names I never learned in Kindergarten. Beyond the stalls are rows of cars with their trunks open to show litters of puppies or kittens (and sometimes both) inside. Most vendors have pictures and signs stating what breed they are selling. One can find several varieties of spaniel, German Shepherds, Pugs, Chihuahuas, Siberian Huskies, and miniature just-about-anything-you-want.
The pet bazaar is not for the faint of heart, or for any person recently exposed to Brian - "Master Sprawler Of The Bronx" who convinces all who lay eyes on his glorious sprawl that they must get a cat. It takes every ounce of will power to walk out of the labyrinth of cuddly temptation empty-handed and one cannot be distracted by previous experiences with lovable fluff. For those of you concerned with whether I succumbed, have no fear: I employed the "I really should do some research before getting a pet" charm to ward off temptation.
More elusive, though no less numerous, are the cat owners who betray their existence only by the evidence that their numbers are large enough to make it worthwhile for our local grocery to stock kitty litter and cat food. I find, however, that I digress.
The pet bazaar (as it is called by us English-speaking outsiders) is tucked in behind some shops across the street from the main bus station in the most elusive way. It is possible to drive by that corner a hundred times and not know it was there unless someone were to point and say to you: "behind those little shops there is a pet Bazaar" and even then, you might not believe them.
For an Almaty bazaar, the pet bazaar is small. A dozen or so rows of stalls under a tin roof covering carry birds, cages, kittens, aquariums, fish, squirrels, pupies in cages and play-pens, and numerous other critters whose names I never learned in Kindergarten. Beyond the stalls are rows of cars with their trunks open to show litters of puppies or kittens (and sometimes both) inside. Most vendors have pictures and signs stating what breed they are selling. One can find several varieties of spaniel, German Shepherds, Pugs, Chihuahuas, Siberian Huskies, and miniature just-about-anything-you-want.
The pet bazaar is not for the faint of heart, or for any person recently exposed to Brian - "Master Sprawler Of The Bronx" who convinces all who lay eyes on his glorious sprawl that they must get a cat. It takes every ounce of will power to walk out of the labyrinth of cuddly temptation empty-handed and one cannot be distracted by previous experiences with lovable fluff. For those of you concerned with whether I succumbed, have no fear: I employed the "I really should do some research before getting a pet" charm to ward off temptation.
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