Meantime, Baer helps people find the pets they want-and sometimes the people the pets want. Baer recalls a middle-aged woman visiting the Manhattan Shelter not long ago. Her dog had disappeared the year before. She had grieved for him and only now felt ready to bring a new pet into her home. She had no particular breed in mind, no unusual requirements. Except the special sense of mutual recognition that tells dog and human they have both come to the right place. Baer led her through the long corridor of kennels. About halfway, she stopped. "Oh, I like this one," she said. Baer could tell, from the look in the woman's eye, and the wag in the dog's tail, that he was about to mark up another adoption. Suddenly a frenzied barking rose from the last kennel in the row. Baer hurried down to investigate the uproar. In the kennel, the dog leaped against the bars and whined so pleadingly that Baer asked the woman to come down. "He acts like he wants to meet you," Baer said. The woman stopped at the cage. "My God," she said, "he has met me! That's my dog!" Baer is sure the woman spoke no more than half a dozen words and that the dog didn't even catch a glimpse of her. The dog never revealed where he had been for the past year, but his delighted owner forgave the prodigal and readopted him immediately. She adopted the other dog, too. A Siamese cat also regained his old home through the Society. A woman had found the animal padding along the street one morning and brought it to the Manhattan Shelter. With the big demand for Siamese, the Society people knew the blue-eyed wanderer would be adopted almost immediately. But Siamese don't often figure among the strays; this one was sleek, well cared for. The shelter workers guessed the owner was looking for it right now.
Within an hour the telephone rang. A woman whose Siamese had just disappeared was on her way to the shelter to have a look at the new arrival. The distraught cat-owner was platinum-haired Kim Novak, and the Siamese did indeed belong to her. He was a fellow movie star, the famous Pyewacket. Miss Novak had acquired him while making Bell, Book and Candle. Pyewacket, Miss Novak explained, looking as lithe and gorgeous as her pet, must have sneaked out of the garden behind her Manhattan duplex. She was overjoyed to find him again and the Society was delighted to be of help. The only disappointment came from some of the male visitors. Seeing Miss Novak in the shelter, they had fleetingly hoped the Society was putting her up for adoption.
Mathematicians have calculated that if you give a thousand typewriters to a thousand monkeys, in the course of time one monkey will write a best-selling novel. The same mathematical principle could apply to the Society's adoption service. Considering the constant influx, every variety of animal in the world would be bound to turn up eventually-and do so in less time than it would take the monkey to finish his novel. Awareness of this law of probability might have been one of the ideas prompting the Society to establish its newest service: Special Adoptions. Through Special Adoptions, applicants ask the Society to stay on the lookout for specific animals. Whether you want a Siamese or St. Bernard, the Special Adoption clerk will notify you as soon as it arrives. The waiting period depends on the animal. Salukis, Afghan hounds and Burmese cats don't appear as often as pets of less exalted ancestry. If and when they do, the Society makes sure the interested parties, pet and person, will get together.
Most recently, the Society had a horse available for adoption, the first one in about 20 years. The horse didn't have long to wait. That same day a man had stopped in at the shelter to find out about ponies. His children had been pleading for one and he wondered whether the Society ever came across any. He hadn't been thinking in terms of horses-but a horse would be twice as good. The Society's horse had belonged to a deceased sportsman. Executors of the estate had already turned down a good many cash offers. The animal was to be a free gift to someone who knew and loved horses. The executors and the Society agreed that this applicant would be exactly right: he was a New York mounted patrolman. The Society itself made one of the best-known adoptions: the cartoon dog Rivets, creation of artist George Sixta. The effervescent Rivets stars in a nationally syndicated newspaper strip. For some ten years now, he has also been the Society's loyal mascot, appearing on posters, booklets and in ASPCA campaigns. Out of 23,000 adoptions, only about 500 involve larger animals such as the policeman's new horse, or tropical birds and so on. Dogs and cats, puppies and kittens, make up the majority. While most of these go to homes distinguished only by a love of animals, some adopted pets look forward to more glamorous destinies. A prominent senator found just the pet he wanted from the Society's adoption ward. So did one of the richest businessmen in the country. Play producers don't often send out casting notices for animals, but not long ago actor Cyril Richard and leading lady Eileen Heckart arrived to do some special auditioning at the Manhattan Shelter. The famous comedian and the attractive actress needed a cat to appear with them in a new play. Like all actors, Richard was a bit leery of having a cat on the stage.
The problem was not only to find an animal that would fit the part but one that seemed, at least, a good steady sort who wouldn't upstage the humans or go pouncing on dangling backstage ropes. A thorough professional, Richard is meticulous about details and wanted precisely the right kind of cat. He and Miss Heckart spent considerable time interviewing the animals and at last found one. Richard then began the sorting process again and picked out another. The Society people had thought Richard needed only one cat for the play. The actor shook his head. "No," he said, "if this cat's going to be a star, he's entitled to an understudy!" A future pet-owner's profession, money or social status doesn't concern the Society. Other qualities are more important and the adoption clerks have a gift for sizing up a person and tactfully discovering certain items of information: First, whether the family is unanimous about adopting a pet. A cat-loving wife with a cat-hating husband may spark some nasty domestic quarrels, and the couple may be too occupied pitching crockery at each other to look after the cat. Experience has taught the Society that the happiest homes for animals are those in which both parents and children agree on the type of pet and sincerely want it. Next, whether house or apartment is big enough to accommodate the pet. A Great Dane in overcrowded quarters would be miserable. So, eventually, would the humans. In the flush of enthusiasm over acquiring an animal, some people overestimate the capacity of their home and underestimate the size of the pet. In the long run, everyone will be much happier if living area and animal are in the proper proportion. A vigorous dog needs a reasonably vigorous owner to meet the animal's high-spirited demands for exercise and amusement. The Society likes to feel sure that the prospective owner is healthy enough to cope with his new pet. Howling, yowling and meowing are not popular sounds in crowded New York, or anywhere else.
If the owner hasn't the means or inclination to give his pet attention and companionship, there isn't much point in adopting the animal at all. The Society is eager to have its animals adopted, but more eager to have them find affectionate homes. Successful adoption means the right pet for the right person. After all, the Society's animals are among the most valuable in the world-they are, literally, priceless. "A million dollars couldn't buy an animal from the Society," says William Mapel. "But you can get one absolutely free." The Society doesn't charge a penny for any adopted animal. For dogs, it's necessary to pay the fee for a license, a legal requirement in New York. If the new owner wants to make a contribution, small or large, it's entirely up to him. His gift is used to help run the adoption wards. Vice-President Mapel was standing in front of the Manhattan Shelter one spring day, enjoying an afternoon break, when a woman and a big, frisky dog emerged from the adoption center. "He's a nice fellow," said Mapel. "Where did you get him?"
"Inside," she answered. "He's a very valuable dog. Cost me a lot of money."
"He did?" Mapel asked, raising an eyebrow. "How much?"
"They charged me fifty dollars for him," the woman said proudly. "Listen," Mapel said confidentially, "I work for the Society and I know something about dogs. If you paid fifty dollars, you paid too much. We'd better go back and straighten this out."
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p; "Well ... actually it wasn't quite that much," the woman began. Mapel is a fisherman and he approaches it with the delight that only fishermen comprehend.
But unless someone needs a meal he loves to release his fish with a friendly pat and an admonition to know better next time. That day, on the pavement in front of ASPCA headquarters, Mapel was doing a little of his own brand of fishing. "How much did it really cost?" he asked. The woman hesitated. "Oh ... I guess it was a lot less, maybe half of that ..."
"Still too much," said Mapel. "Let's go inside and see those folks who sold you the dog." The protesting woman finally admitted she had acquired the dog for no more than the price of the license. "Outside of that," she said, "I didn't have to pay anything. But if you want to know the truth, I wouldn't sell him for all the money in the world. So," she added triumphantly, "that means he's worth a whole lot more than fifty dollars!" Mapel bowed to feminine logic. He had caught his fish and given it a friendly pat. He gallantly hailed a cab for the woman and smiled as she and her dog drove away. The Society's pets are free, but we all put our own value on animals. Some people do the same thing with diamonds.
16 - The Wild Ones
Naked ladies are not a usual sight in New York-not, at least, on the street. In fact, by the time Ryan answered a call one night, the lady in question was already draped in a blue jacket which a policeman had gallantly offered. But her state of undress concerned her less than a recent episode in her shower. "It's there!" she wailed. "I saw it watching me with its little beady eyes!" One of the neighbors, her hair in curlers, tried vainly to soothe the young woman. "Now, now, Alice, don't carry on like that. You're tired, you've been working hard. Come into the house before you catch your death of cold." The officer took Ryan aside. "She was in the shower," he said. "Claims she was scrubbing her back when some kind of snake came down off the shower curtain and climbed onto her shoulder."
"Is she sober?" Ryan asked. "Like a judge," said the officer. "If you don't count having conniptions and five kinds of hysterics."
"What about the apartment? Did you find anything there?"
"Who, me?" said the policeman. "I don't know whether that snake's real or whether she's just seeing things, but I'm in no hurry to find out."
"You didn't go up and look?" Ryan asked.
"Hell no!" said the policeman. "Why do you think I called the ASPCA?" Ryan nodded understandingly. After fifty years of rescuing animals in Manhattan, he has learned that New Yorkers occasionally see things that aren't always there. On the other hand, he has also learned that New Yorkers see things that are there-but have absolutely no reason to be. So, playing it safe, he took a gunny sack and a pole lasso from his car and went upstairs to investigate. The apartment door stood open. He could hear water running. The bathroom door hung from one hinge. The young lady had evidently not worried about opening the door; her main object was to get out and Ryan was surprised she had not taken the door along with her. He peered cautiously inside. In the bottom of the tub, under the spray of warm water, coiled a handsome 14-foot king snake, eyes closed dreamily, enjoying the bath. Although king snakes are not poisonous, this one made up for it in size. Ryan could understand why the girl got upset when it tapped her on the shoulder. A friendly gesture from a reptile that large would somehow be unconvincing. Ryan picked up the snake, who seemed an agreeable, easy going sort, and stowed it into the gunny sack. He went downstairs again. The girl, her neighbor and the policeman were still there, along with a large crowd. "I won't go back," the girl was yelling. "It's waiting!"
"Everything's OK," Ryan called. "Nothing to worry about. I got him right in here." He held up the bag. As the crowd turned its attention to Ryan, one of the passers-by asked what he had in the sack. Ryan told him. The crowd dispersed without encouragement from the policeman. Finally persuaded there were no more reptiles on the premises, the girl allowed her neighbor to escort her upstairs.
On the pavement, the policeman waited to get his coat back. "It wouldn't have been gentlemanly," he said, "to ask for it until she got dressed. You know," he went on, "I don't figure it. How can a snake get into anybody's apartment? It can't climb through the drainpipe; it can't go up the walls and through a window. Is she maybe dating a snake charmer and he left it there by mistake?" Ryan shrugged. "I used to wonder about those things myself. But sometimes I think it's better not to know." Ryan has a point. There is undoubtedly an explanation for each of the unusual animals that show up in New York; but the explanation is often less plausible than the animal's being there in the first place. At half past two one morning, Society agents went out to investigate a report that a lion was driving through Brooklyn in an automobile. They found it to be only partially accurate. The lion was riding around in a car-but he did have a human driver with him. "I paid a lot of money for Leo," the man said, proudly patting the head of the 150-pound cub. "He likes a little ride now and then. The rest of the time, he stays in the back yard." Since it is illegal for a private citizen to harbor a wild animal in New York, a magistrate ordered Leo turned over to the zoo. Later, when one of the Society's agents asked why he felt the necessity for keeping a lion, the man looked puzzled. "Gee, I don't know," he said. "I always wanted a lion. And it sort of dresses the place up." Another time, the Department of Health asked the Society to keep Little Sheba, a three-month-old lioness, under observation to make sure she had a clean bill of health. In cooperation with the Department of Health, the Society does this for more than 5,000 animals a year, and it presented no problem. The Society has also sheltered many lions.
Lions have been known to bite people. None of this added up to anything really out of the ordinary-except that Little Sheba belonged to the operator of a beauty salon. And the beauty salon catered exclusively to poodles. Why a lion cub should be associated with poodles is something the Society made no attempt to figure out. Still, it is practically impossible to surprise the ASPCA. Each year, in addition to its other, more ordinary charges, the Society cares for about 4,000 offbeat animals, including alligators, skunks, bats, porcupines, raccoons, swans, ospreys, ocelots, hawks, Java temple birds, herons, mynahs, chinchillas. Some of these arrive at one of the Society's shelters individually, some in groups. After the death of one West Side apartment dweller, the management called the Society to check on a few remaining pets. In the apartment, ASPCA agents discovered four species of snapping turtles, tropical fish, two boa constrictors, a python, a ten-foot alligator and a man-eating piranha. "Mr. Green," sighed the manager, advised of this small scale zoo, "was always a great nature-lover." Pythons, boas and alligators have not been native to New York for several million years. "When they appear in the city, it's a reasonable guess that someone has deliberately brought them there, that they have escaped from zoos or pet shops, or arrived as unintentional stowaways on boats. Nevertheless, a number of wild animals do infiltrate New York under their own steam. Woods and marshes fringe some of the out lying regions of Queens, Staten Island and the Bronx. The ASPCA shelters serving these areas regularly host creatures who should feel more at home in a Disney movie. Not long ago, a 100-pound female harbor seal showed up on Staten Island. For a temporary lodging, the Society found the most congenial place to be a bathtub. Although the seal enjoyed the tub thoroughly, the Society located more spacious quarters for her at the New York Aquarium."
Also in the Staten Island neighborhood, an owl made its way out of the woods one night and flew into all upper-floor office. Either it didn't want to or didn't know how to get out again, but in any case the office manager, next morning, discovered the bird solemnly perched on a hat rack. The Society took the owl back to the woods, hoping it would be wiser than it had been before.
"I'm up near Hastings," said one man, telephoning the Westchester shelter, "on a fishing trip. Haven't caught any fish, but I got a deer." The ASPCA men hurried to the spot. The fisherman had been using a large net; snared in it was a 700-pound buck. "I'd throw him back," the fisherman said desperately, "but I can't get him out of the net!" The Society's a
gents disentangled the animal and the deer ran back to the woods. "Boy," the fisherman said, "I'm sure obliged to you. I got a fishing license all right, but I'd have one hell of a time explaining that deer to the game warden!" The Brooklyn shelter, with the responsibility of looking after animal welfare throughout an SO-square-mile area, comes in for its own share of wildlife in the form of foxes, pheasants, wild turkeys. But one recent visitor was less wild than unexpected: a brown-and-white goat. Brooklynites noticed the goat during the height of the Christmas shopping season. Minding its own business, the goat strolled along the avenues, stopping every so often to look at the window displays. Most of the passers-by assumed that one the goat was part of some advertising campaign whose point, obscure at the moment, would eventually be revealed or two the goat had its own sound reasons for being there.
Finally, one Brooklyn citizen could no longer stand the suspense and telephoned the ASPCA. "Listen," he said, "I don't want to butt into anybody else's business, but this goat that's walking up and down Eighth Avenue ... I mean, is it supposed to be doing that?" Santa Claus, as far as the Society knew, did not employ goats to pull his sled. Agents collected the animal and brought it back to the shelter, where the goat spent the holidays calmly. As a matter of policy, the Society tries to return wild animals to their normal habitat. If the animal is too wild-a lion, alligator and so on-the Society finds a home for it in one of New York's several zoos. But a goat doesn't really count as a wild beast; at the same time, it's hardly the type of creature the Society normally has available for adoption by a friendly home. Not that somebody in New York wouldn't enjoy having a goat in his apartment, but the Society doubted that city life would be healthy for the goat. At some point in its career, the goat must have had an owner. But no one arrived to claim the animal. The goat took up residence at the shelter and stayed on through New Year's. At that time, the Society had a call from a wealthy and well-known New Yorker with an estate on Long Island. "My wife and I were talking the other day," he said, "about getting a few animals for the place. A couple of sheep, maybe. Or even a goat. I don't suppose ... I mean, this sounds pretty silly, but you wouldn't by any chance ..."
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 15