Most of my Dutch readers know that I adore cats. I'm the proud owner of five wonderfull fluffy balls of hair and in several of my Dutch novels my cats play important parts.

That's why many avid Dutch readers stop me on the street to ask me how the cats are doing.

You haven't met my cats yet, my dear American readers? Not to worry: I'm working on a wonderful spicy Cat Story in English, starring my Birman Cat Tiger.

It's Summer time and my cats simply love it to sit outside in the huge cage I set up for them in the garden. I don't want them to run around freely and ruin my neighbors' tulip beds.

When I pick up my Birman cat Iduna to take her outside, I feel something weird under her armpit. Something hard and round.

What might that be? A tick perhaps or just a little knot in her long furry coat?

I get a comb, and putting Iduna on my lap, I examine the little bulge.

It's not a knot, it's definitely a round hard lump just beside her nipple. And it wasn't there last week, I'm sure of that.

All color drains from my face. I can only pray that it won't turn out to be... cancer?

Trembling all over, I call my vet.

"Good grief!" the vet's secretary calls out. "Please come over immediately!"

Hardly an hour later my vet examines the little bulge, and I see the laugh vanish from his face.

My horror suspicion was right. Breast cancer.

It's a quickly growing tumor and the poor cat must be operated as soon as possible.

And if this weren't enough, she has to be castrated too.

"But we go to Cat Shows," I protest. "She's a Champion."

"I'm sorry," the vet says. "It's the only chance she's got."

"But she's fourteen! A cat of age. It's far too dangerous to do two operations at the same time!"

The vet shrugs. "It's your decision, but if you don't have it done quickly she'll die soon."

I have no choice at all, and the operation is scheduled for the next morning.

A terrible sleepless night follows. I've had cats castrated before. Dotje for example and my Tiger. They were both almost dead when they were returned to me. And their recovery has taken weeks.

Oh! I'm so worried!

Next morning I put poor Iduna in a pet carrier and I bring my loudly meowing cargo to the vet's clinic.

The vet's aid takes over the carrier and I caress Iduna's nose to say goodbye.

"Good luck, girl," I whisper into her beautiful brown ears,"This is for your own best, you must believe me."

Iduna meows in reply. The sound is so heartbreaking, so reproachful, that a huge lump of guilt fills my chest.

"You can pick her up at four," the aid says and she carriers my sweet cat away.

Will I ever see her back? Alive?

The longest day in my entire life follows.

I try to write, but that's impossible. I glance at my watch every three seconds and check out if the phone's still working every five seconds, so I'm quite busy.

Around noon, I can't stand it any longer and I call the vet's clinic.

"She's fine," the secretary assures me, "both operations went well, and the vet expects the tumor to be gone completely."

I almost cry out for joy and I can hardly wait till four.

At a quarter to four I rush to the clinic and the vet himself brings me my cat.

"All's well," he says, "I've good hopes she'll recover completely. Come back in ten days to have the stitches removed."

"Will do. Thank you so much."

I drive the cat home, carefully put down the carrier in my living, and open the little door.

Iduna is lying on her side and I can see a deep long cut in her belly. Next to that there's another gash all over her chest.

"You poor soul," I wail. "What can Mommy do to help you?"

Oh my goodness, I don't even dare touch her, how will I ever get her out of the cage?

The poor soul struggles to her feet, and strolls out of the basket in a very stiff way.

Unexpectedly, she stretches her body, speeds to the kitchen and meows loudly because her feeding bowl isn't there.

Huh?

I rush after her and manage to reach the kitchen in time to prevent Iduna from jumping on the sink. It's obvious she wants to help herself to my husband's steak.

"You're not allowed to eat yet," I explain. "Tonight at nine, then you can have just a tiny little bite."

Iduna shoots me an indignant look, scoots out of the kitchen, and rushes up the stairs.

"No!" I shout, hurrying after her. "Come back, you little rascal!"

I catch up with Iduna in the bedroom where she's indulging herself with my Tiger's diner.

"Oh, you naughty girl! You don't have permission to eat, and I've the slight feeling you're not allowed to rush around the house like this either."

I go downstairs, and dial the vet's number.

But I feel a bit silly, like the woman who calls the surgeon and says: "Doctor, my husband had this dangerous operation today, there are two huge gashes in his belly. I'm wondering: is he permitted to play hopscotch?"

Greetings from The Netherlands,

    :-) Anita Verkerk.