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Chapter 19. Sacrifice and Reward: The Rescue of Cleo and her Kittens
One night in early March of 1988, I received a call from one of my animal rights contacts about a few stray cats in a car lot on East 96th Street. "Patty, do you think you can help" Joan asked. "They are doing construction at the site something about building a religious Mosque there. The cats have to get out." I thought about it only a minute and then asked, "Can you meet me at this place tomorrow night and show me what's going on? I'll do what I can. I was eager to get involved.
After a few phone calls, I arranged to meet with Joan, as well as two experienced cat trappers, Kathy and her husband, Jim. There was a family of five feral (wild) tabby cats, a mother and 4 kittens, living under abandoned cars in the lot. We began to formulate plans on feeding and humanely trapping the cats. Another rescue associate, Mary Tate agreed to let me temporarily house the family of unsocialized felines in the bathroom of an empty apartment in the building that she owned provided that I went there everyday to feed and care for them. She gave me a key to the apartment.
Kathy and Jim had what is called a "box trap." A large, rather cumbersome device that was capable of capturing up to 4 or 5 cats at one time. One held a long line attached to the trap and when the cats were inside, pulled the cord, causing one end of the trap to drop and enclose the cats safely. Unlike, the more commonly used, "Have-A-Heart" trap, the box trap could not be left unattended. One actually had to stand there, holding the line and wait for the cats to go in. It is a painstaking and time-consuming process.
We first had to get the cats used to a regular feeding schedule to insure a specific time they would be there every night, as well as to guarantee they would be hungry enough to go in the trap. That required a couple of weeks of regular feedings. Over this time, I began to know and delight in the cats. Mom was a skinny, but very pretty gray tabby with huge green eyes who was very protective of her babies. I named her, Cleo after the famous Egyptian Queen, Cleopatra. Not knowing the sexes of the babies, I decided to name them later.
We set up our "trapping night" for a cool evening when I was off from work. We brought warm barbecued chicken to entice the hungry felines into the trap.
Luckily for us, the cats were waiting for us.
It took about a half hour to capture all five cats in the trap. The hungry mother went in first. Then one by one, her babies cautiously followed. "Boom!" I pulled the cord and the door came down in a snap. Once realizing they were trapped, the cats began to panic. But, Kathy quickly handed me a light blanket and ordered me to quickly cover the trap. "They will feel more secure when you do that" she said. Sure enough, once covered, the cats quickly calmed down. We then put the trap in the back of Kathy and Jim's station wagon and drove to Mary's house.
Once at Mary's building, we put the cats in the bathroom with food, water, litter box and a soft towel to lie on. All five cats were terrified and huddled together in back of the toilet. I did not attempt to try and touch them. I had learned well from my previous experience with "Linya."
Over the next few days I went to Mary's place following work to care for and handle the cats. Since the kittens were about 12-weeks old, it was comparatively easy to gain their trust. Within a couple of days, I could pick up and pet the 3 boys and one girl. I named them, Brandy, Candy, Randy and Sandy. Cleo, the mother was a different story. Very timid and scared, she backed away from all attempts to pet her. On the other hand, the gentle mother did not attempt to bite or scratch. There was hope for her.
On one of my days off from the Russian Tea Room , I took all 5 cats to the vet for shots and Leukemia/FIV testing. (These are infectious diseases in cats). All cats were basically healthy, though the mother was extremely underweight and seemed to be suffering from a cold. Life on the streets is very hard on female cats whose bodies become taxed, not only from dealing with the elements and trying to find food, but also from the stresses of multiple litters. The vet gave me medication for Cleo and advised me to feed her well and watch carefully.
Unfortunately, over the next few days Cleo's condition became much worse.
Cleo stopped eating and drinking. Ropes of drool hung from the ends of her mouth to the floor and her nose was completely clogged and crusted, forcing her to breathe through her mouth, something very unnatural in cats. Even more alarmingly, Cleo dropped more weight. I became panicked when noting her weakened and emaciated condition. I would need to get her back to the vet the next day.
I had been working at the world famous Russian Tea Room restaurant for more than two years and had never missed one day of work for sickness or any other reason. On the contrary, I often filled in for other cashiers who, for one reason or another, could not make it into the job. I therefore, did not anticipate any problem calling the next day to tell my boss that I could not work that morning. I told her I had a very sick cat that needed to go to the vet. Josie seemed sympathetic and said, "OK" when I assured her I would be in the following day.
The vet at the ASPCA informed me that Cleo had a very severe Upper Respiratory Infection and would die unless I was able to force-feed and get fluids into her. He gave me antibiotics, syringes and instructions for force-feeding and advised me to run hot, steaming water in the shower to create a humid environment. The kittens had also developed Upper Respiratory Infections, but their cases were much milder and did not affect their eating. I was very worried about Cleo, realizing the possibility I could lose her.
The fact that Cleo was too weak to try and flee from me or strongly resist the medications and treatment was evidence to how very ill she was. The cat was hovering between life and death. I didn't know when leaving her in the bathroom that night, if she would be alive the next day.
The following morning when I returned to work, there was more to be worried about. My boss, Josie, called me into her office.
Josie expressed disbelief that I took off a day from work, "over a cat." She went on to say, "Patty, I know a year or two ago, you would never have done something like this. But, lately, your priorities seem to be someplace else; not with your job. I'm afraid I will have to let you go."
I was shocked beyond mere words. I muttered something about still caring for my job, but I had a cat who almost died. " I HAD to take her to a vet, Josie. This was not some kind of cosmetic or trivial choice!"
But, Josie could not understand. I realized in that moment, that I had made a mistake in telling the truth and thinking others would understand or empathize. Had I simply claimed to be sick myself, I would not be standing there hearing the words that I just been fired. How fair was life when one tells the truth and is punished for it? Was a day on the job more important than an animal's life? Apparently, it was.
The truth had "set me free." But, it was not a freedom I sought or wanted. I had once vowed to myself to always tell the truth, no matter what the costs. Well, it was costing me then. And yet I could feel no regret. I thought to myself, if I could get fired for, in my mind, doing the right thing, then sooner or later, I would be fired over something equally small or unfair. The job was, despite all appearances to the contrary, no loss.
I got my things together and said sad good-byes to coworkers. So numb by this sudden turn of events, I walked home from West 57th Street to East 88th Street. After some time absorbing the shock of what had happened, I finally grabbed my coat and headed to Mary's place on East 85th Street to see how Cleo was doing. I was afraid to open the bathroom door for what I might find.
To my great relief, Cleo was still alive. Somehow the firing of the last hour or so, melted into oblivion with the sheer joy I felt upon seeing Cleo look up at me with those wide green eyes. But, the joy was soon replaced by duty. Cleo still looked horribly sick. The drool, the clogged nose, the open mouth, the obvious weakness in the debilitated cat was frightening. I quickly ran hot, steaming water in the tub to try and aid her breathing while I prepared the medications and syringes for force-feeding.
Cleo, weak as she was, tried to resist the force-feeding and medications with the result that most of it ended up on the walls and floor. The entire bathroom was a mess with pink antibiotic and baby food decorating in wild, abstract pattern, like some, bizarre modern art painting. Moreover, I felt I was torturing the fragile cat whose mouth was full of ulcers making it extremely painful for her to try and swallow anything. There was one terrible low moment, when feeling despaired and failing in my attempts to save Cleo, I lowered my head in my arms and cried. Still, this wasn't a time to feel sorry for myself or defeated in the mission. I plodded on, for not to was not an option. I was determined to save Cleo's life no matter what it required or how punishing my actions might seem to her. God, how I wished we could talk to animals and somehow explain what we were trying to do! I hoped, as impossible as such might seem, Cleo was able to understand my desperate actions and intentions.
The life and death struggles with Cleo continued for about another week, when one day, following the ordeal, Cleo slowly tiptoed to the water bowl and began to drink! It represented a major step forward. It was my first indication that Cleo was finally starting to feel just a wee bit better! "Thank God!" I said, throwing my arms up wildly in sheer jubilance. Maybe, just maybe, we would get through this yet!
Two days later, Cleo began to eat and it was then that I finally knew she would survive. I no longer had to force-feed and I could finally get to work on cleaning all the stuck baby food and antibiotics from the floor and walls as well as preparing Cleo's now healthy and social kittens for adoption.
Over the next few weeks, all but one of Cleo's kittens were adopted. One of the boys, Brandy (who looked just like his mom) was however, especially devoted and close to his mother and seemed to be an aid in her then, speedy recovery. I decided that with all the sacrifice and effort that came with this rescue, including that of my job, to bring Cleo and Brandy home to live with me, my mom, daughter, and the three cats previously rescued from East 86 th Street.
Cleo and Brandy became very loving, social cats who would remain with me until their deaths fifteen years later. So close were these two cats that mere months after Cleo passed from kidney failure in 2003, Brandy developed incurable cancer.
In remembering back to their initial rescue, I now believe that during those darkest hours when the young mother, Cleo, struggled so hard to live, she knew well and appreciated what I was trying to do. No one could ever believe that Cleo had once been a "feral" cat -- so affectionate and trusting of people she became.
Two weeks after bringing Cleo and Brandy home all those years ago, I found another job. In 2004, the prestigious Russian Tea Room closed its doors forever. If it be true that "no good deed goes unpunished," it is also true that no sacrifice goes unrewarded. Though painful at the time to lose a well paying job with many benefits, there was never a moment I regretted then or now, the rescue and saving of Cleo and her babies. I was rewarded many, many times over with Cleo and Brandy's devotion and unwavering affection.