The annotated budak

To be fixed

Every year, the Cat Welfare Society rounds up community cats from all over the island for a one-day festival of fixing called Spay Day.

Teams of volunteers gather at one of three drop-off points early in the morning. The wailing cats, trapped the day before and subjected to an overnight fast, are documented before being sent off to participating vets who magic away their precious mojos.

Once fixed, the cats are returned to their original neighbourhoods, where they stand guard against roving felines and lay bare the cold hearts of men without mercy. 

A passing lady remarked, "Such filthy things!"

Another man asked, "Are you people from the gahmen?"

Surely he jests. If a tiny country with grand ambitions can ill-afford the costs of caring for greater causes, how could he expect it to get its hands dirty over issues of petty concern only to people living in forgotten heartlands?

The nicest of neighbours

Though not according to some town councils, which prefer the cold shine of modern estates devoid of random variables and harmless threats to fragile communities. Tipped and semi-tamed, the cats of more tolerant estates offer a welcome touch of softness to the hard edge of highrise homes, which they bless with bellyflops and stares of sleepy familiarity.

Sedentary and sometimes too sedate for their own good, these pussies carve out each flat into cat-sized corners and guard their lobbies against unfixed interlopers. Without them, the decks below will be merrily null and void and there will be no one to blame for the noise and nuisance that litters these building blocks of civil society. And the residents of a garden city will be free of yet another chance to squander their small mercies and interrupt the pursuit of health and happiness with a minute lost to bellyrubs and banal humaneity.

Changi cats

Surrounded by the spoils of discarded lines and the riches of a coastal market, the cats of Changi Village enjoy a charmed life of leisure and long, lazy days. Some lurk by the food centre, patrolling the round tables to demand their cut of freshly cooked morsels. Others turn their backs to the world and sweaty lines that willingly wait twice the time it takes to down their rice.

And on the high ground before the aging parade of bumboats, tubby pusses doze and invite gentle intrusions into their private space. Here, they prowl and play, sharing the night with other cast-offs of respectable society for as long as the day when sanctimony heads east and cries foul at the sight of dirty little acts and the moral stain of unsanctioned cats.

Tweeting while the duck is drying

Howdeee!

This is Tweety aka Bananabird aka Yellow Kukuchiao taking over from the stupid miao who's airing her belly in the bedroom. My sad tale began a little over a month ago when I was checking out some shiny wheels at a carpark. Suddenly, this big fat duck descended upon me and plucked my feet up with his greasy fingers. He looked tasty and nutritious so I let him carry me back to his pigeon-hole. Clearly, he has perverted sexual habits, as the first thing he did was to place me in a fish tank.

After giving the duck a few hard chomps with my nut-cracking beak, I decided that he was unfit for consumption. Fortunately, I have since trained this dim fowl to provide a daily dose of grain, fruit and water, and in return I bless his dwelling with regular moults of feathers and the fresh aroma of parrot poo. The duck's other owner is a fett dumb pussy who is only good at smacking him and sleeping. At some point, I will get around to training her to smack the duck on command and change my water dish. But for now, it's good enough to have the duck give my abode a thorough hosing (he seems to like that for some reason) while I annoy the miao by imitating all the juicy birds that fly outside beyond her reach.

Barely up

Monday mancat

" *sniff* mmm... this duck smells crabby..."