World without Cats (35 page)

“Doris,” she called, “would you bring Lilith in here please?”

The nanny came in, cradling Lilith in her arms.

“Oh! Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, “I never thought I’d see a living cat again!”

Vera smiled. “With luck, in time, there may be many more. Well, here goes. Set Lilith down on the floor, please.”

Doris did so, propping up the infant with a few pillows. Vera put the kitten down in front of her daughter. Lilith’s eyes opened wide. She reached out toward the cat and started giggling.

Vera grinned. “Well, well,” she said, “I guess this is going to work out.” She put the kitten closer to her baby and placed one of Lilith’s hands on her back. Vera then moved the child’s hands back and forth in a stroking motion. Lilith’s giggle broke into a hearty laugh. Eve purred loudly.

A few days later, Angelo arranged a teleconference among scientists working out of the four labs caring for bullet cats.

“We have two options,” declared Angelo. “We can begin releasing kittens to the public right away, or we can keep them sequestered until they are old enough to breed. Then we will be able to release the kittens from the next generation.”

André Fidèle said, “I don’t see any reason to wait. The cats are either resistant to FHF, or they are not. If they are, then there is no reason not to release them right away. I think we would be wise to get the new generation as geographically spread out as possible.”

“I don’t agree,” countered Vera. “At this stage of the program, there are still very few cats. They are precious. If something were to happen to even a few of them, this could reduce the breeding population below the critical size necessary to perpetuate the species. It is … or was common, before FHF, for cats to be run over by cars, or to be mauled by dogs or to die from infections. I feel strongly that we should breed the cats ourselves and only release them when we have, say, a couple of hundred worldwide.”

“Yes,” offered Professor Yuri Mishkin from Moscow, “Dr. Barnett is right. We must protect the first few generations until we are absolutely certain that the animals are resistant to FHF and that their numbers are over the hump, as the Americans say.”

“Ah,
oui
,” replied Fidèle, “I see that you two have a compelling argument.”

“That’s convincing,” Angelo agreed. “Then we must set up breeding programs in each of our centers.”

That evening, Kal was entertaining a lady friend named Karen, who was delighted with the kitten dozing in a corner of the sofa. “What’s her name?” she asked.

Kal replied, “It’s a he. His name is Adam.”

“I think this is the first cat I’ve seen in a year. Do you really think the cats from the university will make it?”

Kal sat down beside Karen, handing her a bottle of Hefweizen. “We hope that many will, but I don’t think Adam will be one of the survivors.”

“Why?” Karen put down her drink. “Is he sick? He looks okay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that Adam is kind of an experimental control. He didn’t get the protective genes that are supposed to guard the cats against the FHF virus. I expect he’ll start to show signs of the disease within a few days.”

“Oh, that is so sad.” She took the kitten in her lap and began stroking it tenderly. Adam, eyes still closed, purred. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he’ll survive anyway.” Kal said nothing.

The next day, as expected, Adam was unsteady on his feet and would take no food. The kitten expired eighteen hours later.

In the months that followed, Vera and Noah kept in ongoing communication with the centers in Atlanta, Paris, and Moscow. “Look,” said Vera, pointing to the image on her laptop, “they’re building special enclosures at the CDC.” Noah peered over her shoulder. “Angelo says the compounds are large enough to accommodate up to a hundred cats each.” She scrolled down.

“Whoa!” cried Noah as he read aloud. “The cats are sealed off from the public by concrete block walls. Spectators can observe the colonies through thick, double-paned windows.”

Vera stood and put her arms around Noah. “There is so much effort, so much expense going into this. What if it’s all for nothing?”

Noah pulled back. “Vera, c’mon! We’ve done all we can. Our ideas are sound. As far as we know, we’ve made no mistakes. It’s up to nature—God, if you prefer.”

Vera stared into his eyes without speaking. Finally, with a raspy voice, “Right.” She pushed away. “Thank goodness we don’t have to worry about protecting the cats from FHF.”

By October, there were fifty-eight surviving sexually mature cats housed in the four centers. Those lacking the bullet had been removed from the colonies and died soon after. A few of the remaining animals had expired from causes unrelated to FHF.

Vera paced the room, Lilith in her arms. “It’s time, Noah. Starting today we can let the cats mate. “

Noah looked up from his reading. “I know. Think about it. Half the human population knows.”

Vera stopped pacing. She nodded, her face beaming. “Thank you. I’m so absorbed in the project, I guess I forget that much of the world is following it too … Oh Noah, I’m so scared.”

Noah rose and enfolded mother and daughter. The three remained still for several minutes.

Vera placed Lilith in her playpen. “We haven’t forgotten anything, have we?”

Noah wrinkled his brow. “Like what?”

Vera sat down beside him; she took his hand in hers. “Let’s go over it one more time,” she said. “In order to keep the gene pool as diversified as possible, we’ll ship several of our cats of each sex to Atlanta for breeding. Likewise, cats from the CDC will be flown to the institute.”

“Right. And the same exchange will be done with bullet cats from Paris and Moscow.

“I’m sorry, Noah. I keep expecting something to go wrong …”

“Vera! I’m the nervous Nellie, here. One of us has to be calm. You’re appointed.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Maybe we can both relax.” She kissed him warmly.

In November, just before Thanksgiving, Vera was checking her inbox. “Look, Noah, we got a break. Angelo writes that the mated females in all four labs are fertile. They’re all pregnant.” She yelled out, “Whoopee!”

Lilith began bawling. Noah picked up his daughter. “It’s all right, sweetheart. That’s just your mommy when she’s incredibly excited.”

By the end of the year, queens in Camarillo, Atlanta, and the two European cities were giving birth to litters of three or four second-generation bullet kittens.

In mid-March, Vera and Noah received an e-mail from Angelo, reporting that the French, and Russian groups had begun releasing cats from the labs.

In Paris, kittens were given to individual families.
Le Monde,
in cooperation with the Pasteur Institute, conducted an essay contest. In five hundred words or fewer, the writers had to explain why they wanted to care for one of the experimental cats. Three scientists from the institute, as well as several university professors, artists, and political personages served as judges. The winners each received a kitten provided, they could demonstrate they knew how care for the animal.

“We need to discuss this,” Vera remarked after she read Angelo’s message. How are we going to distribute the rest of the Camarillo kittens?”

“We could contact
The Star,”
said Noah. “I’ll bet that editor, Kohut, would love to get in on it.”

Vera nodded. “Good idea. I don’t want to have a contest like the French are doing, however. Reading essays would take too much time. Nevertheless, we do have to be sure that whoever takes a kitten knows how to care for it.”

Vera phoned Douglas Kohut. As expected, he was pleased to have
The Star
help with distributing the cats. The next day on the front page,
The Star
announced a lottery. Winners would be given one of the kittens to take care of. Entrants had to demonstrate that they had the physical and financial means to take care of a cat. They were also warned that there was no guarantee that the pet would survive. An entry slip was printed right on the page. A drawing would be held for every kitten that was ready to be taken out of the lab. Within a week, the paper had received over four thousand entry slips, some from as far away as San Francisco.

By the following Tuesday, Vera was ready to release the first of the newly weaned kittens: two males and two females. The drawing was held at
The Star’s
offices in Camarillo. Several hundred people had gathered for the event. A huge, wire-mesh drum held the entry slips. Mayor Yoshino was on hand to officiate. He turned a large crank to rotate it, and picked out the first winner.

The mayor read from the slip. “Lorena Menendez of Oxnard.” He waited. No one came forward. “I guess she’s not present. It’s okay. Being here isn’t a requirement. We’ll phone her later.”

Douglas Kohut stepped forward. “Here, we can call her right now on my phone.” He dialed and, after a moment, handed the phone to the Mayor.

“Hello,” said Yoshino, “is this Lorena Menendez?” He looked at the crowd. “I think it’s her daughter. She’s going to get her mother.” A moment later he said, “Hello, Mrs. Menendez? Are you the Lorena Menendez who entered the drawing for a kitten?” He nodded vigorously toward the gathering. “I’m happy to tell you that you are the first winner.” He addressed the people in front of him. “She seems to be rather excited.” Back into the phone he added, “I’m going to let Dr. Barnett talk to you. She’ll arrange how you can pick up the kitten.” He handed the phone to Vera.

Two of the remaining three winners were present and were able to take their prizes home with them. The fourth was a man who lived in Simi Valley and could not be reached at first.

During the weeks that followed, more kittens were released in Paris and its suburbs, in Moscow, and in Atlanta. One April afternoon, Angelo arrived home early, carrying a cardboard carton. He could hear the faint strains of a Bach prelude through the thick door and smiled.

He put the carton down on the porch and let himself in. He sat down in an armchair just out of Dorothy’s sight. When she finished the piece, she started to rise and spotted him. Dorothy screamed. “Angelo! You scared the daylights out of me.”

He rose and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t want you to stop playing just because I was here.”

“Is something wrong? Why are you home early?” She was breathing hard.

“No, nothing is wrong at all. In fact, I have a surprise for you.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“Just wait right here.” He went back to the door and retrieved the carton. He set it on a table next to Dorothy.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Dorothy pulled open the cardboard flaps. She gasped. “Oh. Oh, Angelo. I can’t believe it!” In the box were two barely weaned kittens, one all black, and the other white. “I never thought …” She started to sob. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she took both of them up in her arms and snuggled them to her breast.

Angelo nodded with satisfaction. “Dorothy, you must understand that it is possible that one or both of these cats may die. We don’t know yet whether Chamberlin’s vector will work.”

Dorothy nodded. “Yes, I know. I’ve been following all the developments in the news, and you’ve been telling me about the project at the CDC. Why did you choose me to take two cats?”

“Why not? Who is more worthy or more capable? You helped fund Dr. Barnett’s original experiments in California. You have more experience in taking care of cats than most people. Besides, it wasn’t just I who chose you; it was unanimous by the committee overseeing the project.”

“We’ll have to pick up some items for the cats: food, litter box, bedding.”

Angelo smiled. “Wait right here, please.” He went back out to his car and soon returned with boxes of stuff—canned and dry cat food, small cat beds, a scratching post, two litter boxes, and cat litter—in short, just about anything and everything one might need to care for cats.

Dorothy shook her head. “Oh my. You are so thoughtful.” She put the kittens back in the carton and put her arms around Angelo. “You will never know how much I love you.”

“Maybe not. But if you love me as I love you, then … I don’t know how to finish the thought.”

Dorothy grinned. “I think I get the idea.” She began bustling about, setting out a water dish in the kitchen, preparing the their bed, putting out food, and performing all the little chores she used to when she had a houseful of cats. “Do the kittens have names?” she called to Angelo in the next room.

“Yes. Let me see. I think the black one is called Hermione and the white one, Engelbert.”

“Oh for goodness sake. Those are terrible names. Who named them, anyway?”

“It was the lab techs on the project. One day at lunch, they tried to think of the most outrageous names they could for the cats. They even made a list.”

“Well, I’m just going to rename them. So the black one is female and the white is male?”

“Yes.”

She thought a moment. “I’m going to name the female Nora and the male Torvald.”

Angelo laughed heartily. “My dear, you recall that their marriage didn’t end up so well.”

“I know. But
A Doll’s House
was our first evening out together, and if I name the kittens after the couple in the play, they will always remind me of that night.”

26
 

By mid-summer of 2023, the second-generation kittens from the four centers had been released to the public in areas in and around Moscow, Paris, Atlanta, and Camarillo.

In mid-July, Noah received an e-mail from Angelo reporting that a cat known to be carrying the bullet had died of FHF in Moscow.

“Uh-oh,” said Noah.

“What is it?” asked Vera. She walked over and looked over Noah’s shoulder at the screen. “Uh-oh is right.” She laid her hands on his shoulders. “That’s the end of it, isn’t it?” She sat down on the couch, her head in her hands. Her body sagged, as if devoid of energy.