Homeless (4 page)

First, she listens to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope. “His heartbeat is strong—a little fast, but that’s understandable, given all the stress. Respiratory rate is fast, but I don’t hear any wheezing or whistling.”

She moves her hands slowly over the cat’s legs, back, and stomach.

“No broken ribs—that’s good. That leg might be fractured, so we’ll X-ray. Hopefully, it’s just swollen from the trauma of the accident. If so, he’ll just need to stay confined for a while so it can heal. While he’s recovering, we’ll give him all his shots, and we’ll neuter him so he can’t go out and make any kittens. There are already too many feral cats out there.”

Dr. Mac takes a bag of clear intravenous fluid—an I.V.—from the cupboard, hangs it on a metal stand, and connects some long plastic tubing to it. An I.V. is a mixture of sterile water with important nutrients that injured animals need.

“I’ll start the I.V.,” she says, inserting a thin plastic needle into a vein in Tiger’s foreleg. Then she connects the end of the I.V. tube to the needle, allowing the fluid to flow from the bag into Tiger’s vein. “That will rehydrate him and make him feel better,” she says as she adjusts the flow of fluid into the tube.

While she’s cleaning out the scrapes on Tiger’s hip, I tell her about the conversation with Mrs. Frazier.

“She can’t get the county to put those cats to sleep, can she?” I ask. “And what about Socrates? He could get captured, too.”

“Yes, she can,” Dr. Mac answers. “The law in every state allows officials to remove animals that pose a danger to the health of people. Mrs. Frazier is probably most concerned about rabies. It is usually seen in foxes, raccoons, skunks, and bats, but domestic animals can get it, too. With rabies, you can’t be too careful.”

“What is rabies, exactly?” I ask.

Dr. Mac tosses a dirty piece of gauze in the trash and takes a clean one. “Rabies is a disease that is passed in saliva, when an infected animal bites another animal or a person. It attacks the nervous system and the brain. When an animal is infected, it becomes very aggressive. It drools and attacks anything that comes close. Rabies can be prevented if a bite victim receives treatment quickly. Without treatment, the victim will die. That’s why Mrs. Frazier and her neighbors are so scared.”

“But you said you got shots,” I say.

She moves on to another raw spot on Tiger’s leg that looks really infected. “Animal-care workers get vaccinated because we’re around animals all day, every day. It doesn’t make any sense for the average person to do that. Instead, the law requires all pets like dogs, cats, and ferrets to be vaccinated. That keeps the animals safe, and their owners, too.”

She peels off the latex gloves. “Done. Let’s get him into a nice cozy cage in the recovery room before this stuff wears off.”

T
he recovery room is where a couple of different things happen. It’s where we take animals who have just had surgery, so we can keep an eye on them. It also has our hospital “beds.” There are rows of cages built into the far wall, where patients who are still too sick to go home can stay.

Dr. Mac walks over to the cupboard on the far wall and rummages through the top shelf.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“This,” she answers, holding up a sign that says DANGEROUS ANIMAL. STAY AWAY! She hangs the sign on Tiger’s cage.

“That ought to do it,” she says.

Tiger blinks his green eyes at me and meows softly.

“He looks so sad,” I say.

“He’ll be fine,” she assures me. “He’s in for a couple of days of rest and recovery. Now, I have a few chores for you and the others to do before you go to the Lakes’ house for dinner.”

“Dr. Mac, wait,” I say as she steps to the door. “I have to ask you something.”

She turns. “What, Sunita?”

How do I say this? “It’s . . . Socrates and the other cats. I’m worried about them. Mrs. Frazier says they’ll all be taken away, and—you know what that means.”

She nods once. Dr. Mac hates it when animals are put to sleep for no good reason.

“Couldn’t you talk to her?” I ask. “Convince her to leave the cats alone? We could set up an adoption program like we did for the puppies.”

Last month, Maggie tracked down a puppy mill and we rescued all the dogs who were being abused there. Dr. Mac worked with some other vets and the local animal shelter to find homes for all the dogs. I bet we could do the same thing for the cats in Cat Land.

Dr. Mac pulls up a stool and sits down. She taps her finger on the counter for a minute. Finally, she speaks.

“Mrs. Frazier has a very good point, Sunita. The size of that colony will just grow and grow unless something is done. A pair of breeding cats can have a litter of five or six kittens three times a year. And by the time those kittens are six to seven months old, they can have kittens of their own.”

I do the math. “Dr. Mac, that means one pair of cats could wind up with eighty kittens in a single year!”

“That explains why Mrs. Frazier is upset, doesn’t it? Imagine all those cats living behind your house,” she says.

“I’d rather have them living in my house.”

Dr. Mac chuckles. “I’m sure you would. But it’s not that simple. The life of a stray or feral cat is short and harsh. And it’s a huge problem. I just read an article that estimated there are sixty million feral cats in the U.S., as many as there are pet cats. And the number grows every day.”

I look past the DANGER sign to Tiger, who has drifted off to sleep. “We can’t let Animal Control round them up. We have to find homes for them,” I say stubbornly. “We can’t leave them out there.”

“Your intentions are great, Sunita, but you aren’t looking at the facts. There may be a few strays in that group who are used to being around people, but most of them are feral—born wild and will stay wild. You can’t turn a feral cat into a house cat.”

“None of them will have a chance to be any kind of cat if we don’t do something by tomorrow morning,” I plead. My heart starts to race. Socrates! What if Animal Control gets him? He could be put to sleep with the other cats. I turn around to face Dr. Mac.

“You’re always telling us to make a positive difference. Can’t we do it here? Can’t we do something to save these cats?”

Dr. Mac taps her finger on the counter again.

“There might be another option,” she says slowly.

“What?”

“I’ve read about a few communities that have been trying TVSR programs.”

“What’s that? It sounds like a cable TV station.”

Dr. Mac smiles. “No, not quite. TVSR stands for Treat, Vaccinate, Spay, and Release. They trap the cats in a colony, like Cat Land, then bring them back to the veterinary clinic. There they sedate them, like we did with our friend Tiger, and give them a complete checkup, treating any infections or injuries they may have. Then they vaccinate the cats against rabies and other diseases. They spay the female cats and neuter the males to keep the population from growing.

“Once they recover from the surgery, the animals are released. They put a small notch in the cats’ ears so people will know they’ve been treated. They won’t reproduce, they won’t spread disease, and they get to live out their short lives in peace. As far as I know, we’ve never tried anything like that around here. Might be worth giving it a shot.”

She stands up and slaps her hands on her jeans. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll go down to Cat Land in the morning to talk to the Animal Control officers. I know most of them. I’ll see if they’ll let me try a TVSR program.”

“Can we come with you?”

“Don’t know why not. It’s a Saturday. We could take another look around for Socrates if he hasn’t come home by then. But now, there’s work to do before you all go to Brenna’s. Let’s get cracking.”

T
a-da!” Brenna shouts as Mrs. Lake turns the car onto the gravel road that leads to her house.

We drive up to a roomy log cabin. It looks almost magical, with flowers of every size and color blooming, bird feeders hanging from branches, and the smell of pine in the air. The Lakes’ property is surrounded on three sides by a nature preserve. It’s hard to believe we’re in the middle of the suburbs.

“The Lake family estate!” Brenna says with a grin.

“You’re so lucky to have a place in the woods,” Zoe says.

“It reminds me of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s
Little House in the Big Woods
,” I add.

“Or the ‘Angry Beavers’!” shouts David, naming one of his favorite cartoons. “They live in the forest, too.”

“My mom calls it the ‘Hundred-Acre Wood,’” Brenna says. “I think she does that just to embarrass me.”

Mrs. Lake looks at us in the rearview mirror of the station wagon. “You used to think that Pooh Bear and Tigger lived next door,” she reminds Brenna.

“No, I didn’t,” Brenna protests.

I believe her mother. Brenna’s face is turning deep red.

I like Mrs. Lake. Her chestnut brown hair has silver strands in it that match her silver earrings and bracelets. She works part-time at Golden Age, the retirement community where my grandfather lives.

“I can remember . . .” Mrs. Lake starts.

“That’s enough, Mom,” Brenna says quickly. As the car stops in front of the house, she opens her door. “Come on, let me show you around!”

“Don’t be long,” Mrs. Lake says. “Your dad said he would have dinner ready.”

We follow Brenna around back. There are two other small cabins set a short distance behind her house.

“That one is Dad’s workshop,” Brenna says. “He’s a carpenter. He makes furniture.”

The double doors of the workshop are open wide. The walls are lined with tools all neatly hung and organized by size. There are a couple of woodworking machines in the middle of the floor and some beautiful chairs under the window, waiting for customers.

“Don’t you love that smell?” Zoe says. The air smells like sawdust.

“You’re only saying that because we don’t have any skunks right now.” Brenna laughs. “Want to see the critter barn?”

The “barn” is where the Lakes keep injured wild animals and nurse them back to health. The Lakes are licensed wildlife rehabilitators. Sick or hurt animals are brought to them, and they nurse the animals back to health. Once the animals have recovered, they are set free. Brenna is really proud that her family does this.

She holds up her hand to stop us before we go in.

“We can’t stay in there long. Mom and Dad don’t want the animals to get too used to people. And we have to be quiet. If we talk loudly or goof around, that can scare them.”

“What do you have in there?” David asks, trying to see through the window over Brenna’s shoulder.

“Only a woodchuck and a baby fox right now. The fox arrived yesterday. He hasn’t settled in yet. He got hit by a cart on a golf course. Can you imagine that? Let’s go.”

We file into the barn silently, pass a few empty pens, and walk to the center of the building. Brenna holds her finger to her lips, then points to a hollow log in one pen.

“Woodchuck,” she whispers.

You could have fooled me. The woodchuck must be hiding inside the log. Since there isn’t much to look at, we move on.

The baby fox is in the next pen. When he sees us, he skitters into the corner and hides his head, his body shaking. His left back leg is bandaged.

He lifts his head a little to peek at me over his bushy tail, his eyes wide with fright. I wish I could pick him up, stroke his beautiful red fur, and tell him not to worry, everything will be all right.

“We better leave,” Brenna whispers.

The Lakes’ kitchen table is small, but they’ve set up a card table at the end of it so we can all sit together. As we take our seats, Brenna introduces us to her father, who has a cheerful bushy beard and one pierced ear. Her older brother, Sage, and younger brother, Jayvee, look just like their dad, minus the beard of course.

“Hey, Poe!” Brenna calls. She whistles once and a large black crow hops into the kitchen. He looks at us and tilts his head.

“Everybody, this is Edgar Allan Poe Crow,” Brenna says. “He’s my buddy.” She tosses him the corner of a hamburger roll. Poe snaps it up in his beak and gulps it down.

“Caw!” he cries.

Poe’s wing was so badly damaged by gunshot last year that he can’t fly any kind of distance. He’s the only “critter” that the Lakes have let stay with them permanently.

“Sit down, everybody,” Mr. Lake says as he carries the food to the table. “Let’s eat.”

While we feast on hamburgers and the best homemade potato salad I have ever eaten, Brenna tells her parents about Socrates’ disappearance and what we found in Cat Land.

“I’m sure Dr. MacKenzie’s cat will come home in a day or two,” Mrs. Lake reassures us. “From what Brenna has told us, he sounds like an independent, smart animal.”

“Yes, but he was hurt in that fight,” Maggie points out. “If his wounds get infected, he won’t have the energy to come home.”