The struggle, as the youths would say, is "real". You know how many places can source fresh Cat in the Western Cape of South Africa?! Huh? Do you? *Two*. That's how many. And how many of those places are *reputable*, we may ask; *above board*, as they say; **on the level**, conducting themselves with the barest modicum of professionalism and/or may on occasion, when the fever dreams take them, hallucinate the presence of a health inspector or similar? The answer to that is none. Let me tell you of my problems. The first place is presumably owned and possibly run by somewhere between one and seven Kenyans. Now, I don't know if they're cloning, or somehow *culturing* them back there, or if it's just one guy who keeps coming out and introducing himself as his own brother, but the whole experience makes me feel as if reality is about to undergo a stop error and also I think they cut the cat-mince with horse. The second place is about an hour's drive away from anything, and operates out of a possibly defunct farm. The proprietor, and sole presence most days, is an elderly gentleman from Xinan; and when I say elderly, I mean *fucking wizened*, face like a bleached raisin - if I had to guess, I'd put his age somewhere between mid-nineties and the low three-thousands. And when I say "gentleman", I mean "bug-eyed lunatic clutching a shotgun". Seriously, his eyeballs protrude so far from his head that I swear they physically make contact with his scratched-to-fuck-and-right-back eyeglasses. Shit weirds me the fuck out, man. Not to mention he's always wielding that gun around - I've no idea if it's loaded, but his trigger discipline, or lack thereof, scares me. Also, I suspect he might cut the cat-mince with tourists. Anyway, that's how I stopped eating cat. Simply not worth the trouble anymore. That said, I made the investment into a slingshot and a thirty kilogram bag of gravel, and now I've no shortage of pigeons to eat.