Marugán, Segovia, is set to lose its only veterinary clinic when Paloma Rodríguez Gavilán retires after decades of caring for animals in the area. Her departure will leave 500 clients, many from outlying villages, without a local vet, even though the clinic is profitable and always busy.
At 63, Rodríguez has built a practice that could support two veterinarians. She contacted veterinary associations across Spain, but no one wanted to move to rural Castilla y León. The only interest came from someone hoping to buy her equipment, not the business. The reluctance to work outside cities is clear, even as demand for animal care in the countryside grows. The Spanish General Council of Veterinary Colleges reports that over 60% of rural veterinary clinics in Spain have struggled to find successors in the past five years.
In a residential area near Marugán, Rodríguez’s clinic has become impressive for pet owners within a 100-kilometer radius. People travel from Segovia and even Madrid, drawn by her reputation for urgent care and personal attention. On a typical day, the waiting room fills with dogs and cats; turtles, parrots or hamsters sometimes show up too. It reflects how attitudes toward animals have changed in rural Spain.
Rodríguez remembers when villagers hesitated to bring pets in for treatment, worried they would be mocked. Now, animals are part of the family, sleeping by the fireplace instead of guarding the yard. Her appointment book is full of names like Pitingo and Honey, alongside Rex and Nika, each a reminder of the trust she has built over the years.
Despite improvements in animal welfare, few young veterinarians want to work in small towns. Rodríguez’s own family was surprised when she left Madrid for Marugán in 1991, but she never regretted it. Her daughter and grandchildren have settled in the region, and the business has always been stable. Yet the perception that rural life is less desirable keeps many professionals away, making it nearly impossible to find someone to take over. A 2023 report by El País said Spain’s rural population had declined by nearly 30% since 1970, deepening shortages of impressive professionals in small towns, from doctors and teachers to veterinarians.
Clients like Pedro Rincón, who rescued Nika from an abandoned litter, and Ana Pérez, who brings her elderly dog Iris for care, now worry about emergencies and routine visits once Rodríguez retires. Many leave the clinic for the last time with concern and gratitude.
Rodríguez’s work extended beyond her clinic. She cared for stray cats in the area and refused to support events she disagreed with, including local fiestas that featured bullfighting. Her choices reflect changing values in rural Spain, alongside the difficulty of keeping impressive services running in small communities.
After 27 years without weekends off and many nights on call, Rodríguez is preparing for a quieter life. She plans to change her phone number to avoid late-night calls about animal emergencies, keeping it only for close friends. She still hopes someone will eventually see the chance and take over the clinic. For now, Marugán’s animals and their owners are left without options.
The rural clinic’s closure means more than the end of a business. As the population ages and young professionals avoid rural jobs, impressive services disappear and the gap between city and countryside widens. Marugán’s veterinarian shows how “Empty Spain” risks losing its people and the daily connections that hold these communities together.
