Homeless (3 page)

Mrs. Frazier doesn’t smile the way most mothers do when you compliment their children. Instead, she turns to her son. “Take Katie into the house, Jamie. We’ll talk about this later.”

The brother and sister head for their house with sad faces. I don’t understand any of this.

“They were just trying to help this cat.” I point to the cat, still panting on the baby blanket. “It was hit by a car. We need to take it to the vet.”

Mrs. Frazier waits until her kids have walked far enough away that they won’t hear her.

“I’m the head of the Chestnut Ridge Community Association,” she explains. “I started getting calls about these cats a few months ago. The people in the neighborhood are upset. They say the cats are using their gardens for a bathroom and digging in their garbage.”

She glances at the injured cat.

“There was an old man who used to live a few houses down from me. He’d leave out food for the cats. Well, he sold his house and moved, but the cats stayed around. At first I thought they were real cute, like you do.”

She shakes her head. “Let me tell you something. One cat is cute. Two cats are fun. But you get a whole jungle of cats living in your backyard howling all night, and all of a sudden, it’s trouble.”

“Did you call the animal shelter?” Maggie asks.

“I tried calling everybody,” Mrs. Frazier says, throwing her hands in the air. “I called the mayor, the city council, the county commissioners. With all the work they have to do, it takes a lot more than a few cats to get their attention. Meanwhile, these cats keep having kittens. Used to be a dozen or so back here, and now there have to be more than forty, maybe fifty.”

“We could help you find homes for them,” I say. “Get them adopted.”

Mrs. Frazier smiles sympathetically. “Nobody is going to want these cats, honey, I promise you. They’re wild. They’re not pets. They bite, they scratch, and they have fleas. They’re as bad as the raccoons that live back here. I bet they all have rabies and heaven knows what other diseases. That’s why I want them out of here.”

Her face softens for a minute. “I know my kids like them, but they’re not safe. And we can’t get a cat of our own, not with these mangy critters living at our back door.” She sighs.

“We still have to take care of this one,” I say. I crouch down to check on him. He’s panting faster. I hope Dr. Mac gets here soon.

“You’re foolish if you do,” she says. “The county is coming tomorrow to take them away. All those months of phone calls have finally paid off.”

The county is going to take them away?

“What are they going to do with them?” I ask.

Jamie steps out onto the back porch of his house.

“Mom!” he calls. “Telephone!”

“I have to go,” Mrs. Frazier says.

She walks away, then looks back at us over her shoulder. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your cat. I’ll keep an eye out for him. But you better find him soon. Animal Control promised they’d be here first thing in the morning.”

W
here’s our patient?” Dr. Mac booms as she crosses the railroad tracks carrying a big first aid box and an empty cage.

“Over here!” Maggie calls.

“Dr. Mac, we can’t find Socrates. And there’s a huge colony of strays living here,” I say as she walks over to us. “Some of the neighborhood kids have been feeding them and the parents are upset and think the cats are bad and Animal Control is going to take them away and—”

“One thing at a time, Sunita,” Dr. Mac says patiently. “Why don’t we take care of this guy first, and you can tell me the rest back at the clinic.”

I nod. She’s right.

I’m not sure how old Dr. Mac is. Fifty-five, or maybe sixty. It wouldn’t be polite to ask. Except for her white hair, it’s hard to believe she’s a grandmother. She runs marathons and wears blue jeans and T-shirts from The Gap. Along with running the clinic, she writes a newspaper column about pets and travels all over the world giving lectures. But what really matters, I guess, is that she has lots of energy, she’s smart, and she’s great with animals and kids. And she’s the best person to have around in an emergency.

Dr. Mac kneels in the dirt about a foot away from the injured cat. “Do you know how this happened?” she asks.

We crouch down next to her. “He was hit by a car yesterday,” I explain. “A boy saw it happen. He said the cat won’t eat or drink anything.”

“That’s not good,” Dr. Mac says as she looks the cat over from head to paws. Why isn’t she touching him? I’ve never seen her examine any animal without at least checking its pulse.

“Do you want me to hold him?” I ask. That’s one of my favorite jobs at the clinic, holding cats during examinations.

“Sorry, Sunita,” Dr. Mac replies. “You can’t help with this one. Matter of fact, I want both of you to back up a little, well out of the reach of this critter.”

“Why?” Maggie asks. “It’s just a stray cat.”

Dr. Mac shakes her head. “This isn’t an ordinary stray. This looks like a feral cat. Strays are cats that have been raised around humans, so they’re used to being touched. Feral cats are born and raised in the wild. Some people call them wild cats, though they are obviously different from true wild cats like cougars or panthers. The proper word for them is feral. They hate being touched by people. They think of us as predators, something that will hurt them.”

Maggie and I exchange surprised looks. Can this be true? I know that some cats have to live outside, but I can’t imagine a cat that wouldn’t like Dr. Mac. Or me.

Dr. Mac opens the equipment box and takes out what looks like a giant pair of oven mitts. “This guy could be infected with any number of diseases. I guarantee he’ll try to scratch or bite me,” she says, putting on the mitts. “I’m going to need these just to get him in the cage.”

As she picks up the blanket the cat is lying on, he jerks his neck and sinks his teeth into the nearest mitt.

“See?” she says. “The best thing to do is to get him into the clinic as soon as possible. Once we’re there, I’ll give him a sedative to calm him down. Then I’ll be able to examine him. Safely.” She puts the feral cat in the cage, closes the door, then quickly drapes a big towel over the cage.

“Why did you cover it?” I ask.

“So he’ll feel more secure,” Dr. Mac says, taking off the protective mitts. “You didn’t find Socrates?”

“No,” I say sadly. “And he’s hurt, Dr. Mac. You should have seen the cut on his leg.”

“Zoe told me what happened.” She sighs heavily. “I’ve seen him chase cats out of the yard before, but he always comes right back.”

She looks like she’s about to say more, but she stops herself. She’s probably thinking about all the dangerous things a cat can run into: cars, dogs, poisonous plants. No—I can’t let myself think about it. We’ll find him. We have to.

“David and Brenna are asking around to see if anyone has seen him. We know he came this way,” Maggie explains.

Dr. Mac looks around, then checks her watch. “If he doesn’t show up by tomorrow, you kids can make up some flyers with his picture and hand them out. We have to get back to the clinic now. Go find Brenna and David, and meet me at the van.”

She picks up the cage, and the cat inside it meows.

“We’re leaving? What about the other cats around here?” I ask. “Mrs. Frazier said the Animal Control people were going to round them up tomorrow. She made it sound like they were all going to be put to sleep! What if they capture Socrates, too?”

“We’ll talk about it at the clinic, Sunita,” Dr. Mac says. “I promise.”

When we get to the clinic, the other kids head to the kitchen for a snack. I follow Dr. Mac into the exam room.

Dr. Mac sets the cage with the feral cat in it on the metal exam table, then she prepares a sedative. She takes a small glass vial out of the refrigerator and sets it on the counter. Next, she takes a syringe out of a drawer. She sticks the needle of the syringe through the rubber cap of the vial and draws out a little of the liquid sedative.

“This will relax him and take the edge off the pain he’s suffering. Then we’ll be able to see what’s going on.”

“Aren’t you going to take him out of the cage first?” I ask.

Dr. Mac shakes her head. “Not until he’s medicated. I can’t examine him wearing those protective mitts, and I don’t like being bitten.”

She walks around the table until she’s standing behind the caged cat.

“I want you to stand where he can see you, but stay far away. I don’t want him to stick his paw out between the bars and scratch you. Call to him. Distract him so I can get this done.”

The cat’s ears are flicking forward and backward as he tries to hear what is going on around him and keep track of where we both are.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I call, making a squeaking noise. “Over here, sweetie. Look at me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dr. Mac ready to stick the needle through the bars of the cat carrier. The cat turns his head and looks at Dr. Mac. He struggles to his feet.

“No, no, over here,” I say in a high-pitched voice. “Kitty, stay still.”

Dr. Mac raises the needle.

“Kitty, kitty!”

His eyes are on me. Dr. Mac sticks the needle in the cat’s rump.

“Fssst!” the cat turns, and fast as lightning shoots a paw through the bars.

“Ouch!” cries Dr. Mac. “He got me!” She drops the syringe on the floor and holds her hand. Already a thick line of blood is oozing from the long scratch.

“Oh, no! Are you OK?” I ask.

Dr. Mac takes a deep breath and walks over to the sink. She turns on the hot water and squeezes soap on the cut.

“He got me good,” she says as she scrubs the wound. “This scratch is pretty deep. That’s why I get my shots every other year. Even if he’s carrying a disease like rabies, my vaccinations will keep me safe.”

“Are you going to need antibiotics, too?” I ask.

“Spoken like a true doctor’s daughter,” Dr. Mac answers. “If this were a bite, I would. But I’ll put some antibiotic cream on it and it should be fine.”

“I can’t believe how fast he moved,” I say.

She turns off the water. “That’s how cats are. A dog will usually give you a sign that he’s irritated and might bite. But a cat can turn and attack before you know what’s happening.” She dries the scratch with a paper towel, spreads the germ-killing cream on the scratch, then covers it with a small bandage.

She looks at our patient, then at her hand. “I think we should call this one Tiger. He’s definitely feral, a wild one.” She looks me in the eye. “Be careful, Sunita. Feral cats are unpredictable. You always have to be on your guard around them.”

“You sound just like Mrs. Frazier. He just needs some love,” I say. “Once he’s feeling better, he’ll calm down. Then we’ll find him a good home.”

Dr. Mac shakes her head. “He might look like a house cat to you, but he’s not. He was born in the wild, probably to an abandoned or runaway pet. He’s been raised wild and doesn’t have any interest in being a pet. Now, I could use some gauze and disinfectant here.”

I get the supplies she needs from the cupboard. I know I can’t say this, but I think she’s wrong. Tiger has had a hard life so far, and he just needs some tender, loving care. I could teach him, show him that humans aren’t bad. I’m the only person Socrates is willing to cuddle with, and I can calm down our crankiest cat client.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take care of Tiger while he’s recuperating, help him get used to people. I’ll tame him. That will change Dr. Mac’s mind and Mrs. Frazier’s, maybe even my mother’s.

But that won’t happen overnight. Animal Control is coming to get the cats in Cat Land tomorrow. We have to find a way to stop them—fast.

“Sunita?” Dr. Mac says to get my attention. “You look like you’re a million miles away. We can start the exam now.”

The sedative has relaxed the cat so much that Dr. Mac can take him out of the cage and lay him on the table. He doesn’t even flick his tail when she starts the exam.