World without Cats

by Bonham Richards

  Sturtevant scribbled rapidly on her electronic pad. “Thank you, sir.”

  Pettit smiled. “You’re quite welcome… and please, drop the sir.”

  “Right.” She headed out the door, turned, and gave him a wave.

  7

  April 2020

  1,094,000,000

  Vera sat alone by a placid mountain tarn when suddenly she heard a man’s voice crying “Help! Help me!” She peered out over the icy lake and saw the drowning man thrashing about. She could see no boat—no line to throw him. She dove into the chilly water and swam as fast as she could. Yet, no matter how hard she stroked, she made no headway. The man’s head slipped below the water.

  Vera woke with a start, her heart racing. No lake. No drowning man. She didn’t need a shrink to decipher the dream. No way could she and Kal handle the work piling up without additional help. Her hand shook as she punched in Gary McKeever’s number. “Gary, this is Dr. Barnett.” Her voice wavered with fatigue and tension. “Is Jane there?”

  “Just a minute, I’ll put her on,” Gary answered hoarsely. Vera realized that seven thirty in the morning was on the early side for a scientist who often worked hours past midnight.

  When Jane came on the line, Vera said, “Jane, could you possibly put in some extra time for a while? There is some sort of epidemic affecting the cats in town and I have more work than I can handle. Kal and I could use your help in calming our clientele. I’ve been so busy answering questions, I haven’t had enough time for the animals. I …” Vera’s voice broke. She sobbed.

  “Take it easy, Dr. Bar … Vera. I’ll be over as soon as I get Gary some breakfast … no, he can get his own breakfast. I’ll come right over.”

  Jane arrived just as her boss was attempting to placate four agitated cat owners. Kal hadn’t come in yet. Jane stepped right into the group, grabbed Vera’s arm, and all but dragged her into the back room as Vera protested weakly. At Jane’s urging, Vera lay down on the cot. Jane returned to the group out front. Vera heard her assure them that the vet was doing all she could, but that she had to get some rest or she wouldn’t be able to work at all.

  Before she dozed off, Vera thought how fortunate she was to have found Jane. Here was a helper who continually made herself useful, finding constructive things to do where others might find none. Vera knew that Jane would handle the cat owners with tact and courtesy. She slept soundly, but woke briefly when Kal arrived then fell back into slumber.

  Jane roused Vera shortly after ten. “There’s a Professor P. Merrill Morton on the line.”

  “Hello. Dr. Morton? This is Vera Barnett. What have you found?”

  “Well, it’s a bit of a puzzle, I’m afraid. We’re not quite finished, but I can tell you that one blood sample has a Gram-negative bacillus we haven’t yet identified; I think it’s Pseudomonas. The other two samples appear to be sterile.”

  “But … but …” Vera was still groggy from her nap, but she then came fully awake. “I guess it’s some kind of virus, then.”

  “Yes, it would seem so. However, I’m wondering about the one sample that shows bacteria. Is there any chance that you contaminated the blood with skin bacteria when you autopsied the cats?” Vera sensed that Morton was trying to be tactful.

  “Yes, of course it’s possible,” Vera responded curtly, “but I do know how to take blood aseptically from a dead animal.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. I just … well anyway, that’s what we’ve got so far. I’d be happy to look at more samples. My wife told me that quite a few of her friends’ cats are ill. I’ve got to tell you, my curiosity is piqued.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Morton. I’ll bring more samples. And I will be very careful not to contaminate them. Perhaps I could bring up one or two of the sick cats and let you draw their blood yourself.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Vera gazed out the window. So it’s probably a virus after all … but it can’t be panleukopenia. What the hell is it? Vera brewed a pot of coffee while she looked over the lengthy list of messages that had piled up while she slept. She checked all the animals in the ward, removing the bodies of two cats that had expired during her slumber. She consulted with Kal, but he had no new information. There was some terrible disease afflicting the cats of Camarillo, that’s all they knew. Vera made a few calls to owners and then sat down and sipped coffee absently, while Jane continued taking calls and Kal dealt with walk-ins.

  Vera and Kal drew a tiny amount of blood from several of the sick cats in the ward and prepared blood smears. “Look,” Kal said, “those tiny needle sticks are still oozing blood.”

  “I see. Seems to be something wrong with their blood clotting. That’s consistent with the internal hemorrhaging I saw in the dead cats. Vera diluted a small amount of blood in saline and placed it on a special slide called a hemacytometer. She examined it with her microscope. Her fingers clicked away at a counting device. “Ah hah!” was the only remark she uttered for twenty minutes.

  When she was finished, she turned to Kal. “That’s it! The lymphocyte count in all these cats is low, less than one tenth of the normal level. Also, I see lots of immature leukocytes. This is some mutant type of feline leukemia, and it develops much faster than any I have ever seen. It all fits. Swollen spleens, diarrhea, compromised immunity. Everything makes sense except the rapidity of the disease. Feline leukemia usually takes months or years to develop, not days.”

  As Vera was recording her results, the phone rang. It was Noah. Two of his new research cats were dead. He had slowly replenished his collection of felines after the break-in of the prior month. “I don’t think they died of MEFA,” he said, “because, for one thing, one of the cats didn’t have MEFA. The other one did, but I didn’t think he was that sick.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Noah.” Vera was silent a moment. “I’m coming up to your lab. I want to look at your cats, including the dead ones. I think this may be the same disease that killed Dorothy’s cats. Besides I have to bring some cats up to Dr. Morton for more bacteriological tests. See you in a bit.”

  Vera placed three of the sick cats in carriers and asked Kal and Jane to take care of things while she was out. At the university, she dropped off the ailing cats at Morton’s lab and headed for the institute.

  She met Noah at his office, and they went down to the lab and entered the cat room. Vera went over to the cages and examined all of the animals. A few were obviously ill with the symptoms Vera was coming to associate with the feline leukemia—or whatever it was. Several had bloodshot eyes and were hypersensitive to any touch. Others appeared normal. She took blood samples from several of the ill cats. Acting on a hunch, she then drew additional samples from a few of the apparently healthy ones.

  She asked, “Where are the dead ones?”

  “In the lab.”

  Vera examined the two feline cadavers. She treated the blood samples with Wright’s stain and examined them under Noah’s microscope. It was as she expected—an abundance of white blood cells, but very few lymphocytes.

  She then examined the blood from the cats that were not sick. For a moment she held her breath, and then she gasped. They all presented the same picture: a high granulocyte count and a paucity of lymphocytes. Vera shook her head. “One thing we can be sure of is that your cats have not had contact with any cats outside the institute. Of all the cats in Camarillo, I would have thought that yours would be the safest from an epidemic, unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  Vera regarded Noah, her face contorted with horror. “Unless,” she exclaimed, “the disease started right here. Oh, my God!”

  Noah frowned. “Vera, that’s ridiculous. MEFA isn’t contagious, and the symptoms of this disease aren’t anything like those of MEFA.”

  “This isn’t about MEFA. I’m talking about some kind of feline leukemia.”

&n
bsp; “What do you mean leukemia? My cats don’t have leukemia.”

  Vera’s tone was sharp. “I’ll just bet they do. I did differential counts on some of the cats in my ward. They all showed a low lymphocyte count, but a high percentage of granulocytes. That’s the same picture I just observed in the blood of your cats. I think it’s some kind of accelerated leukemia.”

  “But what makes you think the epidemic started here and not someplace else?” Noah asked, his voice shaking.

  Vera looked him in the eye. “I think your sarcoma virus could be involved.”

  “Sarcoma is not leukemia.”

  “No, but you know very well that all cats carry dormant viral leukemia genes in their chromosomes. Some also carry FIV, the feline AIDS virus. Maybe your sarcoma virus picked up leukemia genes or FIV genes.”

  Noah pulled a roll of antacid tablets from his pocket, popping one into his mouth. “But these cats are all new here,” he said. “After my cats were stolen, I had to bring in others from the outside. So the epidemic couldn’t have started here.”

  “The hell it couldn’t. Before you brought these cats in, did you sterilize the cages?”

  Noah frowned. “Well, of course we cleaned them.”

  “Are you absolutely sure that not one virus particle remained?” Vera walked over to the window and gazed out over the Spanish-tiled roofs of the campus buildings, too upset to speak. She whirled around and yelled, “You bastard! I think we made a big, big mistake in allowing you to screw around with cancer viruses and cat chromosomes. You better stop all research right now before you do more damage.”

  “No, dammit! I will not. You’re trying and convicting me on circumstantial evidence. You’re not being fair.”

  Vera realized that they were now shouting at each other. Alicia Diaz, working at the lab bench, looked over at the two, but said nothing. Vera stormed out of the lab and ran from the institute.

  Ohio attorney Sam Neidleman helped a nurse ease his mother out of the wheelchair. “It’s okay, Mom. You’re in good hands.” After watching Rebecca Neidleman’s health decline for three years, Sam and Sarah had determined they could no longer care for her. They had discussed this for weeks. “I can handle the arthritis or the Alzheimer’s,” Sarah remarked, “but not both at the same time.”

  “She’s my mother!” Sam shouted.

  “Sam, I love her as if she were my own mother, but I can’t do this anymore. Yes, she’s your mother. I’m your wife. You’ve got to make a choice. We can afford to place her in one of the better care facilities.”

  Eventually, they settled on the Van Buren Home for the Aged in Cleveland. Although it was a half-hour drive from their suburban home and pricey, the facility had a good reputation.

  Sarah asked the intake nurse, “Will Mrs. Neidleman be able to interact with the other patients?”

  “Absolutely,” replied the nurse. “We schedule social events every day. We’ve found it helps the Alzheimer’s sufferers greatly. By the way, we don’t use the term patient here. These elderly men and women are residents of the Van Buren Home. This is not a hospital.”

  “That nurse got her hackles up when I used the word patient,” Sam noted.

  Sarah smiled and reached over, placing her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “That’s a good thing, Sam,” she said. “It reveals the philosophy of the home. I think we’ve made the right choice.”

  8

  April 2020

  1,093,000,000

  As he drove home, Noah’s emotions ran the gamut from anger to guilt. Could Vera’s theory be sound? Could the feline-sarcoma vector have acquired the ability to cause leukemia and gotten out of the lab? Am I responsible for this disease? That’s not possible … or is it?

  When he arrived home, Bastette was not in sight. Noah found her in the living room, curled up in a corner. That morning, he’d noticed that she wasn’t eating much. That night, she shunned her dinner entirely. She didn’t act particularly sick, but, when Noah lifted her, she yowled. He froze. Oh, no, no, no. Does she have the same disease? Noah set her down gently on the sofa and started to telephone Vera. He held the phone in midair for several seconds and closed it without making the call.

  An hour later, it rang. It was Lowell Stanaland. “Noah, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your friend Dr. Barnett has requested an emergency meeting of the biosafety and animal-care committees. It’s tomorrow morning at nine thirty. You should be there.”

  All members of the Animal Care and Use Committee were present, but only four of the five biosafety committee members showed up. Noah, who had not slept a wink, sat tight-lipped and stared coldly at his accuser. He wondered if one could simultaneously love and hate the same person?

  P. Merrill Morton brought everyone up to date on the latest bacteriological results. All of the samples were free of bacteria. The disease had to be viral.

  Vera reviewed what was known about the epidemic and told them of her theory as to its origin. She urged the committees to prohibit Noah from continuing with experiments. “I see no other way to prevent further spread of the disease,” she concluded.

  Noah looked around the room to gauge how the committee members were reacting. Biological Safety Officer Andrea Vernon took notes as Vera spoke. Dr. Jerome Robinson, Ventura County’s health officer, leaned back in his chair, his large, black hands held as if in prayer against his pursed lips. Dr. Stanaland, brow furrowed, drummed his fingertips on the tabletop as Vera spoke—a mannerism Noah found irritating.

  “I feel somewhat guilty myself about this,” Vera said. “I was a member of the committee that originally looked into the possible threats from Dr. Chamberlin’s experiments.” Noah saw that she was avoiding eye-contact with him. “I really think,” Vera concluded, “that these experiments must stop until we are sure that the disease did not start at the institute. The evidence suggests that it did.”

  “Dr. Stanaland, do you have any comment?” asked Andrea Vernon.

  “No, but I would … no, never mind.”

  Vernon turned to Noah. “Dr. Chamberlin?”

  “There is absolutely no evidence that this epidemic started in my laboratory,” said Noah, speaking in a monotone through clenched teeth.

  Jerome Robinson spoke. “We should get an epidemiologist on this. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even though it’s not a disease of humans—thank God for that—it seems to be so devastating to cats that we should seek outside help—someone from the UC Davis Vet School, or maybe even the CDC. I’ll contact the State Board of Public Health and see if they can get the CDC involved.”

  “Getting back to our question,” Vernon said, “are we ready for a vote?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. All in favor of implementing a ban on Dr. Chamberlin’s research, effective immediately, and until further notice, raise your hand.”

  The vote was unanimous; it effectively put Noah out of business.

  Noah went straight home without speaking to Vera. Bastette failed to greet him. He called her. “Bast! Bastette!” Noah looked through every room. No cat. He feared the worst. Oh God, no. Outside the back door he found her. She lay, not quite dead, eyes glazed, in a small pool of bloody vomit. Noah took her in his arms and went inside. Tears welled in his eyes. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen and gently wiped Bastette’s mouth. He thought he felt a faint purr, but, moments later her chest heaved, and she was gone. Noah sat for a long time, his once-active, playful friend in his lap. He stared at the wall and pondered the intensity of the bond that develops between man and beast. Finally, he went into the kitchen for the first of what was going to be many bottles of beer.

  Noah was not much of a drinker, and he awoke the next morning with a furious hangover. As usual, he felt around for Bastette, and then, as he remembered yesterday’s events, he remained motionless for some min
utes, unable to accept that Bastette was dead. Finally, he found the energy to get out of bed and unsteadily made his way to the bathroom.

  Noah put on his jacket, went out the back door, and grabbed a spade. Without emotion, he dug a shallow grave for Bastette under a pine. Unmindful of the dirt he tracked through the house, he fetched the cold feline body, gently wrapped her in a pillowcase from the linen closet, and carried the enshrouded corpse outside and laid it gently in the grave.

  Noah stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do next. What does one do when burying a cat? For people, there are rites, but what do you say for a cat? Though he made an effort to stifle the strong emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, a heaving sob forced its way out. He cried openly as he threw soil into the small hole. Shortly, he had covered the remains of his harmless, necessary companion.

  Noah forced himself to go into work. He had a lecture at nine, and, short of complete incapacitation, he wouldn’t think of missing a class. With difficulty, he reviewed his notes, but his mind wasn’t on biochemistry. This morning’s lecture on nucleic-acid structure would not be up to par. Prior to class, as Noah sat at his desk, attempting to go over the material, Gary and Alicia appeared at the office doorway in an agitated state.

  “Doc, what the hell is going on?” Gary asked. “There’s a note on the door of the lab saying the lab is quarantined. Nobody’s allowed in.”

  Noah nodded. “They think that this cat epidemic started right here. Dr. Barnett does anyway. And I’m not so sure they’re wrong. Alicia, I’ve arranged for you to work in Dr. Ivinson’s lab until this blows over.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Chamberlin,” replied the technician. “I know this is a difficult time for you.”

  After Alicia left, Gary stood there, open-mouthed. Finally he said, “Jane told me about Dr. Barnett’s leukemia theory, but she didn’t tell me anything about us being implicated.”