Death at the Cathouse

Last night at about 10, a thought occurred to me. I realized I didn’t have anything planned for the next day, Sunday, and it was going to be a long, lonely day if I didn’t do something about it. Most people would probably start texting at this point, but I knew that my friends were out of town or busy so instead I turned to the Internet. Since I’m a member of the volunteer organization New York Cares, I decided to look and see what projects they had available for Sunday.

I’d volunteered twice previously for NY Cares, once reading library books with children from a poor neighborhood and another time alphabetizing books on the shelves of a different library near Coney Island. For Sunday the only projects they had listed were at the Brooklyn Animal Care Center taking care of dogs or taking care of cats. After a moment’s hesitation, I clicked on the cats and set my alarm clock for 8am.

I woke up shaking my head in disbelief that I had signed up to care for cats. I’m allergic to cats, after all. But there’s a cat, Sammy, who lives at my house and frequently visits me up in my cell. When I signed up, I must’ve been thinking of petting Sammy and teasing him with the iPod cord. Affection breeds affection, or something like that. In any case, I got up, ate my grape nuts, put on my work clothes and caught the Q train to the Prospect Park, the S train to the Botanic Garden and the 3 train to New Lots. I arrived at the Animal Shelter just before 10am.

Scott, the team leader, briefly showed me around. There were cages of cats in two different rooms; each cat had its own 60cm x 80cm compartment with food and water dishes and a tray full of kitty litter. Attached to the cage bars were printed descriptions of the cats, including name, means of acquisition (most were strays) and demeanor. I was stationed in the first room with cats that had been acquired in the past week. The other room, down the hall, contained cats that were ready for adoption. My job consisted of saying hello to the cats, determining if they would like (or tolerate) being temporarily liberated, and then taking those lucky felines to an adjacent play room that had two scratching posts, some empty shelves and a couple toys attached to string.

For the next hour and a half things went fairly well. Three other cat-care volunteers arrived, but they all opted to spend most of their time in the second room where they were able to open the cats’ doors and allow them to roam at will. Meanwhile, I took Erica, Sparkle, Paige, Pearl, Kelly, Tammi, Tabby, James, Letta, Duma, Henry, Ginger and Betty to the play room. These cats were either young and active or mature loungers. All were healthy looking, but they were spooked (dogs were constantly barking down the hall) and required a certain amount of calming. Only one, the irrepressible Tabby, had what I’d call a roaring good time.

It was about 11:30 when I came to Rox’s cage. I was immediately struck by Rox’s face. It was lionesque in miniature. His eyes and nose were surrounded by a circular spray of green and black fur that shielded a long sleek body. I opened the door and spent a couple minutes getting acquainted. As with the other large cats, I was aware of the risk involved in picking Rox up. I didn’t want him sinking his claws into me! But he came peacefully, and we moved to the play room where James, a terrified cat with a black nose, was hiding.

Maybe James said something that got Rox riled up, but from the moment the playroom door closed, Rox’s demeanor changed from “no concern” as it was stated on his cage form, to “aggressive.” I had put him on the floor to prowl around and a low-pitched growl could be heard from then on. Suddenly the door opened and Shavaun, a 20-year-old volunteer, came in with Ginger, who was small and also terrified. Shavaun put Ginger on the floor away from the door and Rox, but Ginger wanted out, even if that involved a run-in with the larger cat. When she bolted for the door that’s exactly what she got.

In a flash, Rox was all over Ginger. By stamping and shouting, I managed to get them separated and Ginger returned to Shavaun’s arms. Rox was growling near the door. There was no way I was going to tangle with him. I went out looking for help. A woman in a yellow t-shirt with a printed cat-friendly quotation I can’t remember was feeding Sparkle some pellets of food through the cage bars. Though she wasn’t wearing the blue or brown uniform of the shelter personnel, it looked like she knew what she was doing. I explained the situation and she said she’d be glad to help.

When the woman with the yellow t-shirt and I reentered the playroom, Rox was still growling and had Shavaun, Ginger and James pinned in the corner of the room. I told her of Rox’s aggression towards Ginger and she talked about conflictive incidents that she’d witnessed during her many years with cats. She knelt down, talking to Rox, coaxing Rox to stop growling, to calm down. As an entreaty of peace, she put her hand out and inched it closer to Rox’s wide, pupil-dominated eyes.

The stand-off lasted only moments. Rox, not one for diplomatic solutions, struck with lightning speed. As the woman pressed his head down to the floor in a defensive maneuver, Rox wrapped his body around her arm and dug in with his claws. Using her free hand to try to detach the cat, he sunk his teeth into her palm. For a long second, they were frozen in a death grip. When I asked, idiotically, if she needed help, the woman replied affirmatively. But I feared moving around her would further enrage the cat and cause it to lash out even more (or at me).

Then it was over. The woman stood up and released the cat, somehow prying herself loose. Blood poured from deep gouges in her arm and hands. As she stood there, stunned perhaps, Shavaun and I fled the room and got help. The woman was accompanied by a worker to a room down the hall. During the attack she hadn’t screamed or even called out, but had continued to try to coax the cat to desist.

Two workers quickly appeared with a wire cage and in no time, Rox was placed inside. His papers were removed from outside his compartment and he was carried to an inner sanctum. The worker carrying that cage wasn’t gentle and he didn’t spare a word on Rox. He knew what happened to cats like this one.

Walking to the New Lots train station shortly after, I felt shaken, but not particularly surprised. Those cats are traumatized, and traumatized animals can be dangerous. I also felt that with a little more training – what to do and who to contact in case of an emergency – the whole unfortunate incident could have been avoided.

I think Sammy is the only cat I’ll be spending time with for a while.