In Chelsea, London, lived a rich cat who was a bit of a snob, though she did deign to chat on occasion with her East End acquaintance who was a poor alley cat.

One day, she announced that she was about to have an operation, but she didn’t mention what it was for.

Two weeks later, her humble friend saw her again and inquired politely how she was feeling, then dared to ask what kind of operation she had had.

“Oh, I am quite well now, thank you,” the rich cat replied, stiffly. “I had a hysterectomy.”

“For heaven’s sake!” the alley cat exclaimed in exasperation, “Why can’t you call a spayed a spayed.”

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