World without Cats

by Bonham Richards

Jane added, “Dr. Barnett is going to remove fertilized eggs from female cats and inject the stuff that Gary and Dr. Chamberlin are making.”

  “Yes,” Vera acknowledged, “and let’s not forget you, Anneke. The research you’ve done to identify likely feral-cat locations will prove invaluable, as will the instructions for trapping.”

  “Thanks, Vera. I’m glad to be of help.” Anneke was pensive for a moment. “I guess I owe Dr. Chamberlin an apology. I used to think that his experimenting on cats had no justification. Now I …”

  Vera gently placed her hands on Anneke’s shoulders. “Thank you. Noah will appreciate that.”

  Anneke made ready to leave. “Say, Vera, I’m interested in this Feline Phoenix. Is it already functioning?”

  “It will be in a few days.”

  “You know, I belong to several animal-rights groups that have been taking donations for the cats, but they don’t know how to put the money to work. I think it would be great if they simply turned it over to you. This vector thing you and Dr. Chamberlin are doing may be the last chance the cats have. I’ll contact the groups. What should I give as the address of Feline Phoenix?”

  Vera was speechless.

  By mid-July, three specially equipped vans were ready to depart from the CDC for areas Anneke Weiss had pegged as possible sites of FHF-free feral cats. The first three were an abandoned farmstead in Nebraska, the outskirts of a town called Wheatland on the Platte River in Wyoming, and several abandoned farms in California’s San Joaquin Valley, near Fairmead. The vans, each with two technicians, set out caravan style from Atlanta.

  One van parted from the others at Nashville and headed for California on I-40. The other two continued north toward Nebraska and Wyoming.

  Richard Sitwell, a veteran CDC tech, woke from a short nap. “I don’t know why they didn’t just send a van from a California office,” he remarked.

  “C’mon, Rick,” replied Sanjay Singh. “Look behind you. These three cat vans are unique.”

  “Right.” Sitwell shrugged. He glanced at a GPS map. “Hey, you want to spend a couple of hours in Vegas?”

  “Nah,” answered Singh. “I don’t gamble. It’s a no-no in my religion.”

  Sitwell looked over at his partner but kept his tongue.

  After three hours, Singh said, “You ready to spell me? I’m getting sleepy.”

  “Sure. Pull out at the next rest stop. Shall we stop for the night or head straight through?”

  “As long as one of us can drive, I’d like to get to California as soon as possible. The sooner we fill this crate with cats, the sooner we can get back home.”

  Sitwell frowned. “That’s three days of driving.”

  “Yeah, I guess that is a bit much,” acknowledged Singh. “Let’s stop in Oklahoma City for the night.”

  “Can you imagine this trip without air conditioning?” Sitwell asked rhetorically as the van sped across the Mojave Desert.

  “You’re such a wimp,” replied Singh. “At least it’s not humid, like Atlanta.”

  “Hey! Highway 58 coming up.”

  “Right. Then we hit the 99 at Bakersfield.”

  The van arrived at Fairmead at two in the afternoon.

  The techs had been given approximate locations of the farms and had no trouble locating the first one. They got out of the van and donned disposable sterile outfits, consisting of reinforced paper jumpsuits, masks, goggles, disposable booties over their shoes, and latex gloves.

  “Let’s look in there first,” Sitwell said, pointing to a decaying two-story farmhouse, its once-white clapboard siding now mostly gray. The front door swayed on one hinge. The techs pushed it aside and went in.

  “Look,” said Singh, “there’s still furniture here. I figured the place would be empty.”

  “Maybe the people left in a hurry,” Sitwell offered.

  Singh frowned. “Or someone died … The carpet seems to be in good shape.” He walked over to a wall where a group picture was hanging. “This must be the family that lived here,” he observed. “I’ll look around down here. You take the upstairs. Watch out for those stairs. They don’t look very secure.”

  “Yeah. I take the risks, and you get the cushy jobs,” Sitwell answered good-naturedly. Although there were a few loose boards, Sitwell negotiated the stairs without mishap. He went from room to room, shining his LED flashlight into every corner. This must have been one grand mansion in its day, he mused, noting that there were four bedrooms upstairs and a huge living room below. Mounds of termite dross were everywhere. Sitwell gingerly stepped over clumps of plaster fallen from the ceiling.

  Downstairs, Singh was equally thorough. He even descended rickety steps to a large cellar. He noted plenty of spiders and old mouse droppings, but no cats. After examining every part of the house, they had found no evidence suggesting any feral cats were in the dwelling.

  “Let’s try the barn,” Sitwell suggested.

  The huge doors of the once-red barn lay on the ground, their hinges long since rusted away. Inside, the two men spied an old horse bridle hanging on a nail. Singh ran his hand over the leather straps, but it crumbled when touched. The roof was missing several boards, allowing rectangular beams of sunlight to penetrate.

  “Look over there,” said Singh.

  Sitwell looked in the direction indicated by his colleague. “Aahh,” he said. “We’ve come to the right place.” At the end of the barn away from the main entrance, he made out scattered bird feathers and rodent bones. “Those tamped-down areas look like they might be birthing nests,” he said.

  Singh whispered, “Rick! Here.”

  Sitwell’s gaze followed Singh’s pointing finger. There, in the dark corner, he spied a mound of sleeping kittens—no mother cat. “Looks like three or four,” he said, softly. “Can’t be more than a week old.”

  Singh nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Back at the van, the men agreed to wait until nightfall. Singh read a magazine. Sitwell perused Anneke’s trapping guide on his PDA. Sitwell grunted, “Hmmmph.”

  “What?”

  “Says here that we should put some closed traps in places where the cats are likely to pass and then wait a few days.”

  “Yeah,” Singh said, “I remember. We’re supposed to let the cats get used to the cages for several days before we set the traps.”

  “It doesn’t say if we should put bait in the traps during the wait.”

  Singh eyed the page. “No, but the woman’s cell number is right there. Why don’t you phone her?”

  “Right.” Sitwell tapped the phone number. “This is Rick Sitwell with the CDC,” he said. “I’m calling from central California. My colleague and I have located some feral cats at a site on your list …”

  “CDC?” Anneke interrupted. “You’re calling from the CDC? You’re actually using the list?”

  Sitwell laughed at her reaction. “Isn’t that why you collected the information?” He asked.

  “Well, yes, of course … I … I’m really glad that it’s helping.”

  “And, no,” Sitwell added, “we work for the CDC. We’re calling from an abandoned farm near Madera.” He explained that two other groups were heading for areas on Anneke’s list. He heard sobs. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that nobody told me that you guys were actually using the list.”

  Sitwell said, “Then I’m happy to be the one to tell you. I have a question about the trapping guide …”

  “You’re using the guide too? Oh my God!”

  Singh shook his head. Sitwell shrugged. “Isn’t that why you prepared it? To assist us with finding and trapping feral cats?”

  “Yes, of course! Yes!”

  “I’ve got to tell you it’s well-written. I’ve read manuals written by CDC professionals that aren’t as clear.”

  “T
hank you. Oh, thank you—so, what’s your question?” she asked between sobs.

  “As I said, we found a litter of newborn kittens. Haven’t seen the mother yet.”

  “You didn’t touch the kittens, did you?” Sitwell sensed that she was now all business. “If you handle the kittens, the mother might abandon them … what’s your question again?”

  Sitwell rolled his eyes. “We plan to set up trapping cages without setting them, as directed in the guide. Should we place bait in the trap?”

  “I left that out? I’m really sorry. Yes. Absolutely. Put a small amount of mackerel near the cage. It doesn’t even have to be inside.”

  “Got it. Thanks for the info. I’ll pass it on to the other groups.”

  After they positioned the traps, the two techs drove into Madera to grab a meal and secure a motel room.

  On Saturday, the techs drove back to the farm from Madera and, after sunset, laid sterile absorbent paper in the bottoms of the traps and a chunk of canned mackerel at the back. After propping up each trap’s door, they placed a sterile towel over the trap, leaving just the opening uncovered. Again, they drove back to town.

  When they returned the next day, two of the traps held hissing, spitting, angry felines. The techs lugged them to the van, where they sprayed the cages and their furious occupants with a disinfectant known to kill all bacteria and viruses. This, of course, enraged the cats even more.

  “My God,” said Singh, “I’d hate to meet up with one of those in a dark alley in the middle of the night.”

  “Yeah,” answered Sitwell, “I see why some people hate cats.”

  The van had been outfitted with a total of twelve enclosures, six on each side. Each of these boxes was separated from those adjacent by a plastic barrier. When the cage door was shut, the interior was effectively sealed off from the cab of the van. A closed, forced-air blower, powered by the van’s electrical system, provided ventilation. The air passed through two HEPA filters before it reached the cat boxes.

  After a half-hour, Sitwell said, “That’s long enough. There can’t be any infectious virus particles left on the fur.” They held each of the traps in its turn up to the door of a cage and pulled up the trap’s door. Singh prodded the snarling animals with a sterile stick, forcing them out of the traps and into the boxes.

  That night, Singh and Sitwell disinfected the traps and reset them. The next day three more trapped ferals had been caught. By Tuesday, the van had its full complement of twelve. Sitwell and Singh prepared to head for Camarillo with their feline cargo.

  Singh asked, “What about those kittens in the barn?”

  “Oh shit! I forgot about them,” said Sitwell. “They’re probably dead already. Without milk from the mother, they can’t last long.”

  “Let’s go check,” Singh suggested.

  When they entered the barn, Singh was the first to see the queen with her litter. “Look, over there. Looks like Mama escaped our traps.” The mother cat growled and hissed at the intruders, her hair standing up and ears flattened.

  Sitwell started walking backward. “I think we’ll just leave her and her family alone,” he suggested.

  “Right. Let’s get out of here!” They turned and tore out of the barn.

  Shortly, the van was headed to Camarillo. As they already had filled their cages, the two technicians would not need to visit the other two abandoned farms. Perhaps they would on another trip. The two other vans were en route back to the CDC with twenty-two ferals—just two shy of their full complement.

  For decades, feral cats, called bush cats in the land down under, had proved to be an ecological disaster throughout Australia, including Tasmania and the smaller islands. Many native species of birds and small marsupials had been driven to extinction, owing to predation by feral cats and by several other non-indigenous species imported by the early Europeans.

  The Aussies were evenly divided on whether to kill all the cats or to use other means to keep them from further harming the native fauna. When the call for feral cats arrived, many Australians felt that it wouldn’t be such a disaster if the species became extinct. One vocal group in Western Australia wanted to pass legislation making it a crime to assist with the perpetuation of the species Felis catus. They failed.

  In any case, quite a few Australians mourned the loss of their pet cats and chose to help with the project. As in other countries, there were feral cat societies, and, when Anneke’s e-mail message reached them, members of these groups were able to identify areas throughout the continent where FHF-free feral cats might be found. Ultimately, the Aussies rounded up forty-seven cats free of the virus. These were all sent to the Moscow Institute of Veterinary Medicine, where a special facility had been erected to house and experiment with feral cats, using Vera’s procedure and Noah’s vector.

  24

  August 2021

  3,681,000

  Noah was eager to show Vera around the revamped BSL-3 lab. “You’re going to love it,” he said as he unlocked the first of two locks on the reinforced door.

  “I’ve looked at the plans, honey. I don’t expect to be surprised.”

  “Just wait.” He opened the door, flipped a red switch just inside, and took Vera’s hand.

  “What’s that switch?” Vera asked.

  “It turns off the UV germicidal lamps. They’re kept on all the time, except when there are personnel or cats in the lab.”

  Vera looked unhurriedly around the room. “Well, it’s certainly more crowded than I had expected.”

  “Yes,” Noah agreed. “Probably too congested. You know, it almost qualifies as a BSL-4 hot lab.”

  Vera pointed to a separate windowed chamber at the far end. “What’s that?”

  “That’s where the incoming cats will be held in isolation cages until they can be checked for FHF.”

  Vera nodded. “And I see that the operating area is also enclosed within its own inner room—oh! There’s the laparoscope.

  “That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? The computer and monitor are below the table. You raise them to working height with a foot pedal.”

  “Noah, I’m scared … seeing all this stuff …”

  Noah put his hands on Vera’s shoulders and faced her. “I know,” he said. “Me too.” He was silent a moment, and then he took her hand. “We’re going to do it. We’re going to win the war against this FHF virus.”

  A single tear plunged from Vera’s right eye to the floor. She moved forward and hugged Noah. “I know we will,” she whispered. “I know.”

  Facilities similar to those in Camarillo had been constructed at the CDC, the Pasteur Institute, and the Moscow Institute for Veterinary Medicine. These centers had engaged veterinarians who were proficient, not only in routine feline surgery, but in microsurgery as well. Each had been put through a crash course in Vera’s planned methodology. All the labs had received a plentiful supply of Noah’s FeLV-FHF vector. The vets and their support technicians waited anxiously for feral cats to arrive from the hinterlands.

  “Oh, crap!” Vera muttered when she spied the small crowd behind the thirty-foot circle of yellow tape around the loading dock at the rear of the institute. She had hoped to keep the date of the van’s arrival confidential. A cadre of campus police stood guard over the area.

  “Here they come,” said Vera, pointing to the CDC van pulling into the parking area at the rear of the institute. She and Kal wore disinfected jumpsuits—not to protect themselves from the cats, but to shield the animals from any FHF the vets might be carrying on their persons.

  Kal picked up two of the special transport boxes. The containers had been constructed at the CDC; each was large enough to house a trapping cage. They had been disinfected with ethylene oxide gas and sealed in sterile plastic wrap.

  The two vets proceeded to the van, where the two CDC techs
were donning their disinfected outfits. Vera was to supervise the transfer of the feral cats to the lab.

  “Kal,” she called.

  He turned. “What? Is something wrong?”

  “No mistakes. This has to be perfect. No FHF gets near the cats.”

  Kal nodded. “Vera, we’ve rehearsed the transfer for a week. It’ll be okay.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to badger you.”

  At the van, Kal held a box while Vera removed the plastic bag. Although she had examined diagrams, this was her first look inside a trapping van. My God, they really did a great job … everything’s so white.

  Inside, Sitwell released the retaining latches of the first cage and disconnected its air hose. He withdrew a sterile HEPA filter from its container and screwed it into the air port. “You have about three minutes until this cat runs out of oxygen.”

  Vera took a deep breath. “Kal, you take this one in. I’ll start on the next.”

  Kal and Vera took turns moving each of the twelve hissing, spitting, feral cats—six females and six males—into the BSL-3 lab. Vera recorded any details she thought might be relevant. “It’s up to us now,” Vera remarked. “Let’s get to work.”

  After a lengthy routine of decontamination, Vera and Kal took several hours to complete preliminary workups. The animals were unruly. “Here, Kal,” she said, “try this.” She handed him a small bag of catnip.

  “No good,” he replied. “They won’t touch it. They just cower at the back of the cage.”

  Vera sighed. “All right. Put on the canvas gloves and hold the cats down. I’ll inject ketamine. That’ll knock them out for an hour or two.”

  When the first of the cats was under, the two vets drew blood, after which they declawed its front paws. Vera knew that the wild cats could be unpredictable and were likely to scratch or rip the gloves or garments of anyone handling them. She had decided declawing was the prudent strategy. Finally, before the cats recovered from the anesthetic, Kal injected them with vaccines against feline enteritis and calicivirus.