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I’m picturin’ it – me, drivin’ round, lookin’ for some action. Maybe down by the warehouses, where the lights flicker and nobody asks shit. Dr. Evil vibes – pinky up, “One million dollars.” – like I’m buyin’ the whole damn block. But real talk, it ain’t that fancy. Prolly just some chick named Tammy, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a streetlight. “What’s your story, hon?” I’d ask, all smooth, but inside I’m like, “This is nuts, what am I doin’?”

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I finally get Mr. Whiskers down. He’s not even mad. Just gives me that “thanks, dude” look. I’m feeling like a hero, right? But then, outta nowhere, this lady starts yelling at me. “You should’ve used a ladder!” she screams. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a vet, not a tree climber!” But whatever, I just smile and wave. Papendrecht peeps can be dramatic, I tell ya.

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