World without Cats (30 page)

When Angelo returned to Atlanta from his latest investigative trek, Dorothy told him of the new baby. She popped open her phone. “Marveloose!” he exclaimed when she displayed the photos. “Are mother and daughter both well?”

“Yes, they’re doing fine.” She told him of the plan to save the domestic cat and mentioned her donation to the effort.

“That’s convincing,” said Angelo. “Do you know what they have in mind?”

“Not really. Vera said that it wasn’t a vaccine, and that it had to do with injecting something into eggs.”

Angelo frowned. “Perhaps they are growing a virus in chicken eggs.”

“No, I think she was talking about cat eggs.”

Angelo laughed. “Cats don’t lay … oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think I’ll give Dr. Chamberlin a phone call.”

Ten minutes later, after Angelo and Noah had exchanged amenities, Angelo said, “I hear that you have a new theory for treating the FHF virus. Is that right?”

“Wow! Word travels fast. Oh, you heard about it from Mrs. Kraakmo. I understand that she’s going to contribute money for the experiment.”

“Absolut. So you are calling it an experiment. That is the proper way for a scientist to approach the question. Would you mind telling me the plan?”

“Of course,” replied Noah. He proceeded to describe in some detail the idea to use FeLV as a vector for carrying interfering FHF RNA genes.

“That is quite a clever plan, especially the idea to inject the vector into fertilized eggs.”

“That’s Vera’s suggestion,” Noah stated with pride. “In fact, she has some experience with injecting into fertilized eggs, and we plan to have her carry out that step.”

“That’s convincing … There is the matter of finding uncontaminated cats to experiment with, however.”

“Yes, that is a hurdle. Vera is thinking of looking for feral cats in out-of-the-way places.”

“Feral? That means wild, yes?”

“That’s right. Feral cats are cats that once belonged to someone and have either run away or been abandoned, or which have been born in the wild and never been domesticated.”

Angelo was silent a moment. “But how will you capture these feral cats if you find them? Unless precautions are taken, they will immediately become exposed to FHF carried by the capturers.”

“Right. I don’t think our planning has gotten that far. We do have a place here in the BSL-3 lab where we can house them and keep them free from contamination.”

“Hmmm. Uh, Noah, I’d like you to take your time on that part of the planning. I will have a talk with Dr. Bronkowski. Maybe I can get him to help with trained personnel.”

“Sure. That’s great! I’ll tell Vera you called.”

“Good. Please relay my congratulations to Dr. Barnett.”

“
Angelo! Her name is Vera!”

“Aha. Of course. Tell her I send my best wishes. I will talk to you again soon.”

Although Bronkowski had enormous respect for Angelo’s investigative acumen, he was ever wary of the star epidemiologist’s manipulative ways, and was apprehensive when Angelo asked to speak with him.

“I have a request,” Angelo said as he breezed into the chief’s office. He was never one to waste time with small talk.

“I’m sure you do,” responded Bronkowski.

“You don’t have to be so hostile.”

“Well, what is it, Angelo?”

“It’s about the cats …”

Bronkowski interrupted, “Come on, Angelo. You know we exhausted all the funds for such projects. If the cats are to be saved, funding will have to come from the private sector.”

“I didn’t come here to ask for money … well, not really. Do you remember Noah Chamberlin, the molecular biologist?”

“Yes, of course,” Bronkowski replied warily. “What about him?”

“He has a new idea for protecting cats against FHF virus. He and his wife, the veterinarian, have what I think is a sound approach.” Angelo described the plan.

“That does sound like a plausible attack,” admitted Bronkowski, “but, as I said, we have no money.”

“No, we don’t,” said Angelo, “but we do have personnel.” Before Bronkowski could interrupt, Angelo drove on. “Chamberlin’s plan requires cats that haven’t had contact with the virus. Dr. Barnett believes such cats might be found among feral populations. The problem is that the very act of capturing the cats is apt to infect them. That’s where the CDC could help. We have trained field workers who could wear sterilized jumpsuits to keep from exposing the cats to the virus. They could spray the cats with disinfectant and transport them in disinfected cages to the labs where the procedures are to be performed.”

Bronkowski frowned. “It’s not like supplying personnel and equipment wouldn’t cost anything, you know.”

“True, but it would not require any new money. It could be funded by the present budget.”

Bronkowski put his head in his hands and remained that way, mumbling to himself for over a minute. Angelo remained silent. Finally, Bronkowski raised his head and said, hoarsely, “Okay, I’ll arrange it. Perhaps, if the plan actually works, we’ll get some good PR out of the effort.”

Angelo fired off a flurry of e-mails. First, he sent a message to Noah informing him that the CDC would be assisting with locating and capturing FHF-free feral cats. Next, he contacted his friend André Fidèle, the team leader for France’s effort to preserve
Felis catus
at Paris’s Pasteur Institute.
He apprised the Frenchman of the plan and urged Fidèle to have the institute prepare a clean facility where feral cats could be isolated from the virus.

Fidèle replied within the hour, noting that he and his colleagues were excited by the news and that they were already preparing their BSL-3 labs to house and operate on any FHF-free cats they could find. He requested details of the surgical procedure to be carried out on the cats.

After returning home, Anneke assembled a set of instructions she downloaded from several websites for capturing feral cats.
This is a waste of time; nobody’s going to read it.
She described so-called “live traps” available from several vendors. These were small, metal cages that allowed the cats to be captured without harming them. She advised setting them at night when cats were likely to feed. Newspaper was to be placed on the bottom of the cages to absorb waste and to allow the cats a surface on which to rest. It was important not to use too much newspaper, as it could interfere with the trap mechanism. Canned mackerel was an effective bait and should be placed at the back of the trap so the cat wouldn’t get hurt when door of the trap closes. She suggested that trappers conceal the trapdoor with a towel. After ferals are caught, they should be fed and watered as needed.

Anneke printed her cat-trapping manual and read it over. Not satisfied, she made a number of changes. Perfectionist that she was, Anneke prepared four drafts before she was pleased with the text.

The next day, Jane accompanied Anneke to Vera’s clinic.

“I think you’re amazing,” Anneke remarked. “You just had a baby, and you’re back at work already.”

“Just a few hours a day, for now. I understand you’ve prepared some instructions for trapping feral cats.” Anneke handed Vera the trapping procedure. Vera examined it in silence, nodding from time to time. “This is terrific, Anneke. I’ll fax it over to the CDC, along with the list of likely locations of feral cats you gave me the other day.”

“The CDC! How did they get involved?” After Vera filled her in, Anneke said, “I never met the Kraakmo guy, but I know of him. He’s the scientist who discovered that FHF started in a Seattle zoo, right?”

“That’s right, and now he’s helping with the search for ferals. It’s a team effort. There are the trappers from the CDC, and Noah and Gary, who are synthesizing the vector to inject into cat’s ova. Mrs. Kraakmo is paying for some specialized equipment—it’s all going to take a lot of money. I’ve formed a non-profit corporation I call the Feline Phoenix to receive donations.”

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.”