It was an unnecessarily complicated journey to get Wilbur's mother spayed.
Except... that's not Wilbur's mother. (Isn't that a painting?)
Having spent more time around Cathy (name explanation: "because she's a cat") than usual across the morning and afternoon, building her trust in me and getting her used to being inside with the door closed for brief periods to make her impending overnight incarceration less of a shock, she was nowhere to be found when that time came, thanks to some badly timed rain.
Cats aren't supposed to eat anything for 12 hours before getting spayed, and we slopped through the mud with the clock ticking, trying to find a cat who's always bloody around nagging when you're just trying to put the washing out, but vanishes without a trace the one time you actually need her.
Maybe she's just very perceptive.
The only cat who responded to our calls was a different friendly neighbourhood female, and as she sat patiently on my doorstep and I prepared to dispense cat biscuits, I realised it was this or nothing. I was planning to get Mimi done next anyway (name explanation: "because she's a cat"), although preferably with some psychological preparation beforehand rather than being yoinked into a cat carrier and put in a spare bedroom decked out with the basic prison cell amenities (as if! That's way too many square metres per capita for a Philippine prison).
Mimi's endearingly meek temperament compared to catty Cathy at least meant we could run our first stray spay gauntlet on easy mode, though I would have preferred it if she'd used the litter tray I provided at some point during the night rather than immediately pissing into the cat carrier the next morning. Luckily, I had time to clean that up before the taxi arrived. She saved the poo for the taxi ride.
After our local vet lied about this country's spaying laws in an attempt to sell us a pregnancy test, this charity put us in touch with a vet that offers discounted spaying to local cats to help control the stray population. Why not use them yourselves, if you live in Davao and there are unloved strays all over your neighbourhood breeding tragic children who'll most likely end up dead or blind? My kitten has special needs, I can't keep bringing more furballs into the house.
Have you got something more important to do, like sitting around all day under a tree with your t-shirt hitched up over your stomach drinking Red Horse and singing shit karaoke, assuming that one day a foreigner will move in and try to fix the problems you've irresponsibly allowed to happen? (I may be talking about some specific people here, but maybe you can relate).
Or maybe you are that foreigner, and similarly wasted most of last year reading books and watching TV? Touché. This is the responsible year.