Global Veterinary Surgery

We’re hopping on the tram to the (almost, but not quite—more on that later) highest Skyview point in Hong Kong, a vibrant city right next to mainland China. Hong Kong was handed back to China in 1997 after quite the rollercoaster of a history. Things seem to have calmed down now, though, and you’ll spot the Chinese flag flying alongside the Hong Kong one. Oh, and don’t be surprised by all the “75th anniversary” signs—those are for the celebration of the 75 years of the People’s Republic of China.

The Skyview is hyped as the highest 360-degree view of the city, but first, you’ve got to endure the little tram’s crawl up a ridiculously steep hill—only to land in the middle of a shopping mall nightmare. It’s filled with stores you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in, not even on a dare. There’s “Selfie Paradise,” where you can snap selfies with various cringy backdrops (because that’s exactly what you wanted to do at a scenic lookout, right?), and, of course, a Burger King for those all-important Skyview fries. Oh, and let’s not forget the random Gumbo shrimp joint. Nothing says “panoramic view” quite like greasy shrimp!

After surviving several floors of this madness, you finally reach the top, only to realize… surprise! It’s not even a full 360-degree view—just a 270-degree peek. The house on the next peak has the real deal with an even higher vantage point. But, despite the letdown, the view is breathtaking, especially as a massive thunderstorm rolls in. Then, just as you’re soaking in the atmosphere, a man with a camera and a rubber chicken greets you at the platform. He yells into a microphone, “Hello, welcome to Skyview!” Squeak, squeak. “How many people?” Squeak, squeak. “Picture for you?” Squeak, squeak. And on it goes, for the entire duration of your visit. By the end, you’re secretly hoping the gods might send a well-aimed lightning bolt to silence that rubber chicken once and for all.

As we begin the walk down, it’s striking how the cool breeze at the top quickly turns into sweltering heat as the path steepens. One thing that never fails to amaze me is the bamboo scaffolding. These towering high-rises are wrapped in what looks like a delicate web of bamboo, and the fact that workers brave those flimsy-looking platforms—dangling off the 40th floor—blows my mind. “It’s very sustainable,” my travel companion notes. “Yes, until you realize they’re held together by millions of plastic zip ties,” I reply, waving goodbye to that eco-friendly dream. But, on the bright side, during a hurricane—or a “cyclone,” as they call them here—the bamboo barely causes any damage when it’s torn away. A silver lining, I suppose!

At the end of our trip we walk through the botanical gardens with exotic plants and animals, it is the year of the rabbit and everything is transformed in a caleidoscopenof red and white bunnies as if they have done was bunnies do best and that is procreate

Later that evening, two good friends from the Jockey Club University Veterinary School invited me to dinner at the FCC—the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Now, here’s the thing: you need an invite from two members to get in, which naturally made me feel very special. This place has hosted some of the world’s most famous photographers and journalists, who’ve captured history from every angle. There’s even an amazing photo exhibit, with iconic images signed by the photographers themselves decorating the walls. As the name suggests, it’s mostly foreigners hanging out, so I fit right in.

Fast forward to when I get back to my hotel room—just as I’m about to unwind, I get a call. A friend insists I join them at a karaoke bar to say goodbye to someone who’s heading to America. Now, full disclosure: I sound like Kermit the Frog when I sing, on a good day. Despite both of my parents being quite musical, that gene seems to have taken a detour around me. So, picture a performance that’s a mix of out-of-tune, offbeat, and atonal attempts at songs—you get the idea.

Thankfully, most of the singing was in Chinese and Cantonese, which meant I was spared from butchering the next rendition of “Mamma Mia.” But I’m pretty sure someone recorded me, and I have a sinking feeling that this will resurface at some point in my life as premium blackmail material. I mean, what better way to leave a lasting impression in China than with a karaoke disaster?

It all began on a sunny day in Rio—yes, that Rio, the one with the stunning beaches and samba beats, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Dr. Susan Little and I were there giving lectures when it hit us—there was a serious need for better information about cats, their health, and feline medicine. Dr. Susan had already penned two books on the subject, and I had contributed various articles. There were also incredible global associations focused on cats, but it still wasn’t enough. The world needed another educational platform.

But first, we had to change hotel rooms (long story short: toilet explosion—don’t ask). We ended up in this amazing spot on Copacabana Beach, and it was there, in the heart of Rio, that we made a decision. We would start a podcast. So, we grabbed our gear and recorded the first three episodes right then and there.

And thus, the Purrpodcast was born—a podcast for veterinary healthcare professionals, all about cats. Fast forward seven years, and we’ve just released our 200th episode! Sponsored by Norbrook, this milestone episode features Dr. Thomas Schermerhorn discussing feline hyperthyroidism, the most common endocrine disorder in cats.

It’s been an incredible journey, and I couldn’t be prouder. Catch the episode here and enjoy it as much as I did!

https://www.spreaker.com/episode/hyperthyroidism-in-cats-our-200th-episode–62345100

After a quick hop from Melbourne to Sydney, I find myself chauffeured by a bus driver who’s clearly under the impression he’s auditioning for Formula 1. I swear, if Max Verstappen ever needs a backup driver, this guy’s ready to go, using the streets of Sydney as his personal racetrack. The radio blares out Australian rugby, which takes me back to a time in Perth when I had a surprise elevator encounter.

Picture this: I’m in the hotel elevator, minding my own business, when someone yells, “Hold the door!” Being the Good Samaritan that I am, I stick my foot in. In walks ten very large men… and one tiny one, all dressed in black. “Where are you from?” they ask. “Holland,” I say. “What about you?”

“Oh, we’re from New Zealand, mate,” they reply.

“Oh? What are you doing here?” I inquire.

“We’re the All Blacks,” one says, with an air of self-assurance that clearly expects me to fall over in awe.

“Football?” I say, oblivious.

They clarify, “Rugby,” and I go, “Oh.” (Way to play it cool, right?) Later that night, I bump into them at the bar, and we have a beer together—turns out, they’re really nice blokes. The next day, when I mention this casually to my hosts, they look at me as if I’ve just revealed I dined with the Queen. “You met the All Blacks?! And their coach?!” Safe to say, the FOMO was palpable.

Back in the present, our driver—who’s navigating the surprisingly smooth new tunnels from the airport—mentions how construction is everywhere, but these tunnels have shaved a 45-minute traffic nightmare down to a breezy 10 minutes. Mid-rant about Sydney’s skyrocketing costs (apparently it’s now one of the priciest cities in the world), he suddenly cranks up the radio. “Sorry, mate, these are my horses,” he says. Turns out he’s into horse racing. His favorite, Esquema, is racing, but as the race ends, he grumbles, “Lilac wins… Esquema came seventh.” So close yet so far.

Sydney, I quickly learn, is a bike-sharing paradise. Green rental bikes are scattered all over, but the problem is, people seem to think it’s okay to abandon them wherever they please. A favorite spot turns out to be any water ways. Reminds me of the canals in Utrecht—filled to the brim with discarded bikes until they send a boat to dredge them out. It’s a tradition, I suppose, if you’re into pulling rusty bikes from murky water.

On the way to one of Sydney’s northern beaches, I spot smoke in the distance. “Ah, that’s a controlled burn,” my Uber driver explains. “Problem is, they often go out of control.” Sad truth—every year it’s the same story, and the wildlife and native plants take the hit. You’d think they’d learn by now.

Apparently, Sydney is also building a shiny new airport, set to open in 2026, with planes landing 24/7. Great news for night owls, I guess. With two airports soon competing for flights, my bet is the budget airlines will be sent packing to the outskirts while Qantas gets the prime central slots. Because, you know, prestige.

We finally pull up to my destination, one of the northern beaches. The driver praises my choice, saying, “If you’d gone to the southern beaches, you’d be swamped by bottomless brunchers—young women who start the day all dolled up and bubbly. But by the time you pick them up? Oh boy, they’re a mess. You’ll need to disinfect the car after they stumble out, lifeless and completely inebriated.”

And, last but not least, the final nugget of wisdom from my Sydney adventure: don’t swim at dusk or dawn. That’s when the sharks start their buffet run. Normally, they’re chill, but at those times, it’s like walking into a McDonald’s full of ravenous brunch-goers—except the sharks are much less forgiving.

Arriving in Melbourne, I was immediately whisked away to the infamous Lane 2, or as I like to call it, the “Red Line of Doom,” where customs officers meticulously comb through every item in your bag. Australia, being an island, has a serious aversion to anything foreign—especially if it might be a virus, pest, or god forbid, a rogue banana. Honestly, I half-expected them to confiscate my hand sanitizer for harboring “nasty microbes.”

Now, here’s the thing: after flying halfway across the Pacific, I lose all sense of time. I turned to my driver and, in a state of utter confusion, asked, “Is tomorrow Wednesday?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “No sir, just Friday.” As if that wasn’t confusing enough, he pointed to the passenger side of the car and said, “That’s your door unless you fancy a bit of driving yourself!” Welcome to Australia, where even cars are upside down.

Then came the moment every traveler dreads—he wanted to talk American politics. Now, I have one golden rule: *I don’t.* So, in a classic deflection maneuver, I asked about Australian politics. “Ah, it’s pretty quiet here now,” he said. “We have the UK system, but we can boot the government whenever we feel like it. And trust me, we do! Happened about 3-4 times recently.” Just casually ousting governments? Talk about keeping things interesting.

Once we’d solved global political crises, we moved on to what really matters in Melbourne—**footie**. Apparently, footie is an Australian mashup of soccer and rugby, where players dash around a massive field, kicking, punching, and, I assume, inventing new ways to break bones. Melbourne is the *spiritual* home of this game, and its devotees are nothing short of fanatical. The Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) hosts the AFL Grand Final, and trust me, that place is more sacred than a church on Christmas. “Explain the rules to me,” I asked the driver, clearly still in post-flight brain fog. “Mate, I don’t get them myself, but it’s a cracker of a game! And you never know who’ll win,” he said. Apparently, the 16 best clubs in the country are currently battling it out for footie glory, and the city is buzzing. Melbourne’s sport obsession doesn’t stop at footie, though. They’ve got everything—tennis, rugby, cricket—and best of all, the Belmont! (Don’t ask me about horses, I’ll trod along like a local.)

As we zipped through the streets, the driver began a culinary tour of Melbourne. The city, he explained, is a multicultural melting pot, which means one thing: *food*. And lots of it. The coffee is legendary, the people are friendly, and life is good—unless you’re in Sydney, where people are apparently too busy to be bothered with pleasantries. “Melbourne is more laid-back,” he said, “while Sydney people are always on the go.” My driver, it turns out, moved to Melbourne from India in 2005 as a student and never looked back. His parents visit for a couple of months at a time, or he heads back to India. “Easy when you’re an Uber driver!” he chuckled. His parents love Melbourne but miss India, so they’re always happy to go home. At some point, our chat turned to food again—naturally. He’s from the north of India, where potatoes reign supreme. “The southerners eat rice,” he explained with a shake of the head, as if rice were a personal affront. Apparently, the divide between rice and potato eaters is a thing. As we wound through the city streets, he mentioned how easy it was to immigrate and buy property back in the early 2000s. But now? Forget it. “Everything’s expensive, mate. People from China and India want to come here, and property prices are through the roof.” Apparently, foreign buyers snatch up anything that hits the market, though the government’s trying to cool things down. “But, you never know,” he said, with the kind of resignation that comes from battling a housing market that’s more competitive than a footie final. And, of course, we couldn’t talk Melbourne without a mention of ‘that’ story—the Danish prince who walked into a bar and walked out with an Australian wife, turning her into a princess. Moral of the story? Anything’s possible in Melbourne.

Touching down in Mexico City after leaving the clean, organized, and almost-military precision of Shanghai? Let me tell you, it’s like stepping into a Salvador Dalí painting. Where Shanghai’s streets are pristine and regulations reign supreme, Mexico City gives you a glorious, chaotic symphony of honking horns, smoky skies, and a traffic situation that feels more like an extreme sport. But before you think I’m knocking it, let me tell you, this place has a magic all its own—starting with the street art. You can’t walk five steps without bumping into a mural or a wall that basically yells, “¡Amor por la ciudad!” And you know what? They’re not kidding. They live for and love this city.

Now, when I asked the locals what’s extra special about this chaos masterpiece, the answer was instant and unanimous: the food. Oh, the food! We’re talking tacos for days, people. And not just your average, run-of-the-mill tacos either. Nope, there’s a taco for every imaginable—and some unimaginable—scenario. Cheese tacos? Check. Cactus tacos? Of course. And if you’ve got a gluten allergy, no worries—corn is the reigning champion here. You can taco your heart out with zero gluten fear.

What makes the food so ridiculously good? Everything’s fresh, straight from the market, and when I say fresh, I mean if you want the best produce, you’d better be up at an ungodly hour like 3 AM, prowling the stalls of Central de Bastos, the city’s giant food market. Think of it as a gladiatorial arena for early risers—if you’re there past 4 AM, you’re practically yesterday’s news. Breakfast around here isn’t just some dainty yogurt-and-granola affair, either. Oh no, we’re talking scrambled eggs, beef tacos, the works. Just steer clear of the scrambled eggs with jam… that combo is a crime against humanity and possibly tacos.

My friend says: ‘I have a buddy whose taco shop game is strong—like, hardcore strong. He works all night, crashes for a power nap at 1 AM, then drags himself up at 2 to hit the market before dawn. By the time I’ve had my first cup of coffee, he’s already prepped an entire lunch rush. I don’t know how he does it, because if I tried that, I’d be the living embodiment of a zombie apocalypse.’

The city itself was buzzing—more than usual—because Mexican Independence Day (September 16th) is right around the corner. The streets were decked out in green, white, and red, and, surprise, surprise, there were taco stands as far as the eye could see. I tried to distract myself from taco overload by visiting a museum filled with Egyptian artifacts, but plot twist: nearly everything there was a replica. One single original piece. I guess you win some, you lose some.

Speaking of losing some… while I was there for business, everyone was in a bit of a tizzy about some recent government changes. Apparently, they’re overhauling the judicial system, and instead of judges being chosen for, you know, their qualifications, now anyone can be elected a judge. Yeah, you heard that right—anyone. I joked that even I could throw my hat in the ring, but let’s be real, my sense of justice would probably revolve around taco disputes, and I’m not sure that’s what Mexico needs right now. Protests are expected, which reminded me of the last time I was in the city.

Back then, my hotel was across from the famous roundabout (because, sure, let’s put a circle in the middle of a square—why not?) the Angel of Independence, most commonly known by the shortened name El Ángel and officially known as Monumento a la Independencia. Farmers had been protesting government interventions for months, which isn’t exactly newsworthy in Mexico. What was newsworthy? They were protesting naked. Yes, the famous nude resistance. Imagine trying to figure out the appropriate price for tacos when you’re dodging naked farmers left and right. That’s a memory that’s tough to beat!