Global Veterinary Surgery

So, there I was, zipping down the A2 highway with Hamza, my young taxi driver, who, out of nowhere, says, “I’m from France!” Now, I don’t know what he was reading off my face, but I was like, “Oh? France? Let me hear more about that later!” I had just wrapped up a wonderful weekend in Utrecht, my old stomping grounds—my alma mater, in fact—where I was a surgery professor for over 20 years. I also studied to become a veterinarian there. Fun fact: Utrecht University’s Faculty of Veterinary Medicine is the ONLY vet school in the Netherlands and the first outside the US to be accredited by the AVMA. Pretty fancy, right? That’s how I ended up doing an externship in Athens, Georgia, years ago. But I digress.

Utrecht is a gorgeous student town, with beautiful canals, stunning old houses, churches, and loads of historical sites. Founded ages ago, it’s a history lover’s dream. Utrecht, one of the Netherlands’ oldest cities, traces its origins back to Roman times when it was established as a military fortification called Trajectum around 47 AD. The city grew in importance during the Middle Ages, becoming a center for Christianity in the region, with its bishop wielding significant power. By the 8th century, it was the religious heart of the northern Netherlands. In 1122, Utrecht officially gained city rights, marking its rise as a bustling hub of trade, culture, and education.

One of its biggest claims to fame? The Dom Tower! The tallest church tower in the Netherlands, built between 1321 and 1382 It was originally part of a massive church complex. But, plot twist—tornado! Yes, tornadoes in Holland. Who knew, right? The tornado tore the church apart, leaving the Dom Tower all alone, standing solo like a dramatic character in a Dutch soap opera. But hey, it recently got a full makeover and now shines like the star of a medieval renovation show. Absolutely worth the look.

The day of my departure, however, Utrecht decided it was a brilliant idea to host a children’s marathon. Now, I’m not against kids running around in circles, but they shut down the ENTIRE city center! I stayed near the Dom Tower, and no taxis could get to me. Cue emergency evac! I grabbed my bags and hoofed it out of the city center just in time to catch a taxi and make my flight.

Enter Hamza. He’s a solid guy. Told me all about why he drives for a taxi company instead of Uber. He’s been at it for 1.5 years and likes it because he can drive his own car and, for the most part, enjoys the perks of working for a bigger company. Plus, it allows him to take care of his wife and their 3-year-old daughter, who, according to him, is an adorable troublemaker. “She’s super naughty, but it makes me laugh all day!” he says. Hamza works hard, 12-hour shifts most days, though he spends about 8 of those actually on the road. He starts at 4 AM (yikes!) but sometimes wraps up around 3 PM to spend time with his daughter. Needless to say, she won’t be running in any marathons anytime soon—Hamza was just as baffled by the city center closure as I was.

Now, about that whole “I’m from France” thing—turns out Hamza wasn’t actually born in Marseille but moved there before relocating to Holland when he was 11. His dad worked for a big international Dutch company, and before all that, they lived in Morocco. Quite the global shuffle!

Hamza’s dad still shuttles between the south of France and the Netherlands, and last year, he took a grand tour of Morocco instead of just visiting the family town. “You should go!” Hamza tells me. “It’s beautiful, but the traffic is insane. I prefer driving here where there are at least some rules.” Right as he says that, a Dutch driver cuts us off in the classic last-minute merge. Oh, the irony.

“I thought I caught a bit of a French accent when you said ‘Noorden’ (the North),” I tell him. His Dutch is flawless now, but he admits, “When I moved here at 11, I didn’t speak a word. It was tough, but now I love it. The Netherlands is beautiful and safe.” He visits his mom every 3-4 months, nodding with that look people get when they talk about how important family is.

Ah, that brings me to the Netherlands vs. Holland debate—the geographical version of “Is it a tomato or a fruit?” Technically, the Netherlands is the whole country, and Holland is just a part of it—two provinces, North and South Holland, to be exact. But for some reason, everyone decided to call the whole place “Holland,” kind of like calling the entire UK “London.” Imagine telling someone from Utrecht they’re from Holland. It’s like telling someone from Texas they live in New York—prepare for the side-eye! So next time someone says “Holland,” just smile and nod, knowing you’re now in on the country’s little identity crisis.

Just as we pull up to Schiphol Airport, I spot a flock of geese flying south. Cue the dramatic realization that winter is coming, and there go my favorite feathered friends until spring. But hey, at least I’m lucky enough to fly south myself—straight to Kansas, to reunite with my family and little Chippie! Ah, the joys of migration, human or otherwise.

Switzerland is like a postcard that got tired of being stuck on the fridge and decided to show off in real life. Famous for its mountains and valleys, you might be surprised when you roll into Basel and realize… it’s flatter than a pancake! Basel cozily snuggles between France, Germany, and Switzerland, so of course, everyone speaks at least three languages here. First up, Swiss German – a lovely, sing-songy dialect that’s like regular German but with more “yodel-ability.” Honestly, it might as well be Esperanto, that forgotten attempt to make one language for Europe. Spoiler alert: it never caught on. But Basel’s residents are language ninjas, flipping between Swiss German, French, English, Italian, and, if the mood strikes, a dash of Spanish. Polyglots much?

For all their linguistic flexibility, the Swiss are not nearly as relaxed when it comes to rules. They have rules for everything. Jaywalk at your peril – cross on a red, and not only will you get a disapproving glare, but a lecture from a local (if a car doesn’t get you first!). True story: a friend threw a birthday party, invited all the neighbors, and it was a respectable Swiss gathering. Wine, chocolate, light laughter. One neighbor decides he’s had enough, says goodnight, and heads home. Five minutes later? The guy calls the police because the “noise” was ruining his sleep. And the party? Shut down, Swiss-style. What are friends for, right?

Ah, the Rhine! I had the genius idea to jump into it and float downstream through Basel. They did warn me to hop out before the dam, or, you know, danger. The water was brisk, the experience refreshing. Though, knowing about the BASF factories upstream, I did wonder if I’d glow in the dark later. Spoiler: I didn’t, but I did get out before I became one with the waterworks. Survival 101.

Speaking of rules and progress, Switzerland isn’t exactly a speed demon when it comes to change. Case in point: women’s suffrage. The final Swiss canton granted women the right to vote in… wait for it… 1991! While suffragettes elsewhere were fighting for equality, the Swiss were taking their sweet time. But hey, they’re punctual with clocks, if not with social progress.

Sundays in Basel are the opposite of a fun day – the city shuts down like someone hit the off switch. Except for the essential cultural experiences, like McDonald’s (that’s “Mack-Donald,” Swiss-style), Mr. Wong, and Cinnabon. So, if you ever crave American cuisine in Switzerland, fear not.

Finally, a word to the wise: don’t mow your lawn during lunch hour. It’s a direct assault on Swiss serenity, and trust me, your mower will be confiscated before you can say cheese fondue. You’ve been warned!

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.