World without Cats
Read World without Cats Online
Authors: Bonham Richards
WORLD WITHOUT CATS
Bonham Richards
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
World without Cats
Copyright © 2008, 2012 by Bonham Richards
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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2601-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-2603-3 (ebk)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-2602-6 (dj)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908410
iUniverse rev. date: 6/11/2012
CONTENTS
March 2020 | 1,099,500,000 |
Associate Professor Noah Chamberlin donned his gray sweats for a morning jog. As he was beginning his warm-up routine, his pocket phone sounded the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Noah directed an angry glare at the device.
Who the hell calls at six thirty in the morning?
He opened the phone to find Gary McKeever’s agitated visage. Gary was his sole grad student.
Uh-oh, something’s seriously wrong.
“Hi, Gary, What’s up?”
“Morning, Dr. C. Sorry to start your day on a negative note, but we’ve got a big problem.”
Noah sighed. “You didn’t prepare the culture.”
“No, no, the culture is fine,” Gary replied. “The problem is that the cats are gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
Is Gary setting me up for some kind of joke?
“Yup, someone broke into the lab during the night and snatched them. It was those animal-liberation nuts.”
Noah was silent for several seconds. “They broke both locks?” he asked hoarsely.
“No, they must have had keys …”
“Is Alicia in yet?” Noah asked. He wondered if the laboratory technician might have seen anyone with the cats.
“No, she doesn’t come in till nine.”
Noah was silent. His heart raced. “Right,” he rasped. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. Go ahead and notify the campus police.”
“Yeah, I already did. They should be here soon.”
Noah had awakened fifteen minutes earlier, anticipating the clock’s alarm by seconds. He’d lain, silently marveling at the precision of his own biological clock. Bastette had pursued her morning ritual, nudging his leg and then carefully negotiating her way toward the head of the bed. The cat’s whiskers had tickled Noah’s chin as she’d settled down on his chest.
Now Noah had a crisis to deal with—a big one. He mulled over what he’d planned for the morning.
Run, shower, breakfast, bike to the university, prepare lecture on protein synthesis
… he heard the flap-flap of Bastette’s private door as she went out to explore the backyard. Noah stared at the floor.
Always one step forward, two steps back …
He considered skipping the run. Drawing back the bedroom drapes, Noah regarded a damp but quietly beautiful scene. Even the morning mist couldn’t quite mask the vibrant reds, purples, and pinks of the bougainvilleas along the rear wall. He spied Bastette calmly grooming herself beneath a tall pine. A crow strutted across the yard, every now and then picking up a tidbit from the earth. The cat and crow eyed each other, but neither made a move. Noah smiled. The cat had learned long ago not to tangle with birds her size or larger. Noah laughed out loud.
Shit!
I’m not going to let this get to me. It’ll take time, but I’ll replace the cats.
He hurried out the front door and jogged at a comfortable pace. As he ran, he mulled over the experiment he had planned for the afternoon.
It’s going to take several hours to set up so I better start right after the institute faculty meeting.
Gary had mentioned on the phone that the bacterial culture was ready, and therefore, everything was set—except, of course, all the cats were gone.
Well, cats aren’t needed for today’s experiment.
When he stepped into the shower the needle spray drummed away all thoughts of world affairs, faculty meetings, experiments, and even the cat theft. For a few moments there was no universe outside the relaxing confines of the shower.
He fed Bastette and bolted a quick breakfast himself. Because of the drizzle, Noah decided against the Sirrus twelve-speed. He threw his attaché case into the old Ford Focus and climbed in.
Driving south toward the university, Noah’s thoughts turned again to research. He recalled when, as a graduate student at Cal, he’d first read about macroerythrocytic feline anemia, or MEFA, a hereditary disease in cats that resulted from a mutation in a hemoglobin gene. He had immediately grasped that the mutation provided an ideal means to test the ability of recombinant DNA to cure a genetic disease.
His two-year post-doc with Jean-Paul Cuisance at the University of Massachusetts had prepared him well for his future research. The old Frenchman was not only a master at recombinant DNA technology but also a terrific teacher. Nevertheless, Cuisance urged Noah not to use cats as experimental animals.
“There are too many legal restrictions on use of cats for research,” Professor Cuisance admonished one day as the two scientists fussed over a PCR apparatus.
“I know, I know,” Noah had responded, “but the potential for saving lives and relieving suffering makes the challenge and the paperwork worth it.”
Cuisance had pointed a micropipet at Noah as if it were a weapon, making jabbing motions as he spoke. “If the authorities don’t stop you, the animal rights fanatics will.”
“Those people break the law,” Noah replied with a shrill tone. “Do you expect me to avoid worthwhile research because of the acts of a few criminals?”
Cuisance stared at Noah. Noah had seen that the old man was becoming frustrated. He’d resigned himself to the invective that was now to come. Cuisance was silent a moment. “Let’s talk about that.” He motioned Noah to sit on a lab stool and sat down next to him. Noah had been unprepared for the calm tone of the professor’s voice.
“Back in 2001,” Cuisance began, “a veterinarian at NYU was forced to quit his job because he was using cats to investigate AIDS in drug users.”
Noah frowned. “Why should he have had to quit?”
“Ah, I’ll tell you why. The animal-rights fanatics picketed the university and called him a cat-killer and other names. They threatened him and his family and performed acts of vandalism against the university. Finally, in order to protect his wife and children, he walked out, the research unfinished.”
Noah shook his head. “Wow. That’s incredible. I didn’t realize those lunatics had such power.”
“Well, they do. Other scientists have been attacked since then. Some have stopped using animals, others have defied the crazies. They’re fanatics. Fanatics don’t give up. Wouldn’t you quit your job to protect your family if it came to that?”
Noah shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” They’d continued to argue, neither convincing the other.
As he neared the university, Noah spotted Alicia Diaz making her way on foot toward the campus. He pulled up beside her.
“Hop in. I think we’re headed to the same place.”
Alicia laughed. “I guess we are.”
“How come you’re on foot?’
“Car’s in the shop. It should be ready this afternoon.”
Noah turned to Alicia. “Gary phoned me a while ago. Apparently, all our cats have been stolen.”
“What?” Alicia cried out. “You’re kidding.” She was silent a moment. “You’re not kidding.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious-looking in or around the lab yesterday?”
“No, not that I recall.”
“Gary said that it was animal-liberation activists. They left their calling card.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
He steered the Focus into the University’s main drive and headed for the institute.
“Could you let me out here, Dr. C?” Alicia asked. “I’ve got to run over to the personnel office. I’ll see you up in the lab.”
Noah spotted Gary’s old, but well-preserved, Honda Civic in the parking lot. Gary had earned a BS with honors as a biology major at Stanford. Shortly after Noah had joined the institute’s faculty, the tall, lanky young man had exploded into Noah’s office, introduced himself, and exclaimed, “I’ve been reading your papers on feline hemoglobins, and I’d like to do graduate research in your lab if you have the room.”
Noah remembered that he had laughed. “I certainly have room. You would be my first graduate student. I’m kind of new here myself.”
Gary had enthusiastically repeated his desire to come to Camarillo and study at Cal State, Channel Islands under Noah’s sponsorship. Now, three years later, the brilliant student was beginning his doctoral dissertation.
He walked toward the building with foreboding. Maybe today’s experiment would succeed, but how could he then proceed without cats to experiment with? He caught sight of the quotation on the lintel over the glass doors.
There is nothing too little for so little a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible.
James Boswell
The Life of Samuel Johnson
I hope so
, he thought. He exited the elevator on the seventh floor and walked rapidly down the hallway toward his office. A group of undergraduate biochemistry students was clustered around his bulletin board where, the day before, he had posted their exam scores. They parted to let him through.
“Dr. Chamberlin, may I see you about my exam?” asked a teen who carried a stuffed backpack over one shoulder. Noah recognized the young man as a student near the bottom of the class. His stomach churned. He hated these post-exam sessions with students more concerned with grades than with biochemistry.
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “Come in and make an appointment.”
“Please, couldn’t I just see you now while I’m here?”
“Well, I have some work to … oh, all right, come in.”
The lad pleaded that he was a pre-med, and he absolutely had to pass this course or he wouldn’t get into med school. Noah did not voice his thought—anyone who can’t pass this course doesn’t belong in med school. He handled the student as best he could, and the young man left the office only slightly mollified.
