I called the vet. “I’d like to make an appointment”.
“Why?” came the response. Then I had to explain. I’d found some strange long sausage-shaped growth thing on my cat’s inside back leg. I tried to explain. I tried again. Then I said,
“Like a tumour.” I was understood immediately and soon an appointment was made.

I turned up with the furry ginger monster in my arms (having refused to go in his cat box), a green lead attached to his torso in case he decided to try to unhook his claws from my shoulders and make a run for it. I was asked what the problem was. I toyed it over. Did I try to explain, again, or did I use the word that worked last time, albeit probably, and hopefully, inaccurate.
“I think he has a tumour.” I said.

It worked. We went through. The vet and his assistant opened the poor cat’s legs and took a look.
“This?” he said, nonchalently. I confirmed. “It’s just matted hair. Very common on Persians.”

Did I feel like an idiot? Well, the fact that he and his assistant were laughing at me, not meanly and quite openly, made it rather difficult for me to try and pretend it was one of my better moments. I accepted in good grace and decided I had little else to lose.

“Would you be able to check if he has a penis?” I asked. They looked up, not sure if I was joking. “I asked another vet to neuter him and I’ve been afraid that he actually castrated him because he used the word castrated, not neutered. I thought it was just a mistranslation, not believing someone would actually castrate a cat, but since I brought him home afterwards, I haven’t been so sure. His hair is so long that I can’t see. I’ve been feeling so guilty about it for months now.” This time they made no attempt to hide their good-natured laughter, and in fairness, I was laughing too.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained: my cat has a penis. It seems that castration is the ‘vet’ term for neutering.