P and I had decided that it was better to have Eva spayed, although we don’t like the operation. The trouble was how to catch her.
We managed to lure her alone into the kitchen, closed the doors and the hatch into the dining room. Thus we hoped to be able to chase her into a corner and into the travelling cage.
No such luck. She dashed about in all directions, across the counter, under the table, along the window. She was quick as black lightning and we decided to give up.
We were both flushed and slightly out of breath. I opened the door and the hatch. Eva was sitting in a corner on the counter behind a cookpot. Her mouth was half open, she was panting heavily.
“Watch that she does not break the teapot,” I said.
P moved it away from her. Eva stayed where she was.
“Look at her,” said P. “I’ll give it one more try.”
He put on his gloves and made a brave dash for the scruff of her neck. She kicked and bit and scratched, but the cage was ready for her and quickly closed behind her.
In the afternoon she came back with a bare belly.
She settled on a pillow in the window and went to sleep.