World without Cats (31 page)

“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.”

“Thank 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
 

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.

“Damn!” said Vera when she looked over the serological test results. “Two of these cats test positive for FHF—one male, the other female.” She gazed at the tiny wells, trying to think of another interpretation. “And then there were ten … Kal, would you see that the two infected cats are taken to the clinic? They can spend the rest of their short lives there.”

“Sure … uh, there’s something else,” he said as he handed Vera a stack of data sheets.

“What?”

“One of the other females has been spayed.”

Vera shook her head. “Well, it’s not surprising. Remember, those organizations that capture feral cats and immunize them often have the animals spayed or neutered. Nine out of twelve … I guess it could have been worse.”

The remaining cats were housed in special cages inside the BSL-3 area. Each of the spacious chambers was equipped with sterilized bedding, food, and water, self-emptying litter boxes, and a variety of playthings for the cats.

Vera divided her time between baby Lilith and the Feline Phoenix project.

A few days after the first load of cats, a second van arrived with seven more. Three were removed immediately when they showed symptoms of FHF. “Now we’re up to thirteen,” said Vera as she deftly transferred a soiled diaper into a laundry hamper.

“Yep,” Noah replied. “I’m keeping score, you know.”

Vera looked up. “What do you mean, ‘keeping score?’”

“Here,” said Noah, “look.” He turned his e-reader toward her. “Angelo e-mails me updates almost every day.”

Vera looked over the list. “Thirteen cats here at the institute … that’s right. Five test cats at the CDC, eight cats at the Pasteur Institute, and eight at the Moscow lab. So as far as we know, there are thirty-four fertile cats available for testing with the vector.”