"Say no more," answered the shelter manager. "We do." The goat moved to Long Island the next day and began a new life of luxury. No one ever did find out where the animal had come from. Perhaps Santa Claus had indeed been using goats that Christmas.
In Manhattan, wild animals are as routine as in the out lying shelters. Sometimes their dispositions leave much to be desired. Agent Tom Earnshaw, now retired from the Society, remembers a 150-pound chimpanzee scrambling over the ventilators in the basement of the old New York Hippodrome.
The show was Jumbo, starring Jimmy Durante, and the chimp had been hired as an extra in the animal scenes. The theatrical life must have gone to the chimp's head. He refused to come down from the ventilators even to sign autographs. The chimp already held a squad of police at bay when Barnshaw and Mark Carrigan, the Society's emergency driver, reached the theater. Barnshaw connected a fire hose and sprayed water in the direction of the chimp, hoping to dampen the animal's spirits a bit and persuade it to come down within reach. Barnshaw gave up the water treatment when he noticed a broken chain hanging from the simian's neck. "I'll get hold of it and lead him down," he told Carrigan. He made a jump for the chain. "Do you have him?" Carrigan called. "Hell no," Barnshaw shouted back. "He has me!" The chimp hauled Earnshaw four feet into the air and swung him back and forth until the ASPCA agent dropped back to earth, pondering a new approach. After two hours of maneuvering, the agents succeeded in dropping a pair of lariats on the chimp, who then descended fairly easily. But the chimp was still annoyed at Earnshaw for spoiling his act. Before Barnshaw and Carrigan could get the indignant actor back to his quarters, the chimp straightened up and landed a haymaker to Barnshaw's jaw. It was as clean a knockout as any seen in Madison Square Garden. When Barnshaw woke up, he thought it wiser not to come out for the second round. He borrowed a pair of handcuffs from one of the policemen and slipped them over the chimp's wrists. Tied and manacled, the chimp was hustled off to his cage. The animal's one consolation was that many human actors had also found themselves in a similar situation.
The term 'wild animal' doesn't exclude birds. One spring afternoon, Manhattan agent Joe Schlesinger was cruising through the center of town when a call came over his two-way radio to pick up a strange bird on a window ledge in the heart of the financial district. Crowds had begun to jam the pavement by the time Schlesinger reached Wall Street. High above, at a 15th floor window, the agent could make out a dark shape. "It's an eagle," one of the bystanders told Schlesinger. "Eagle, hell!" another bystander put in. "It's one of them big buzzards." Other opinions included turkeys, South American condors and hawks. Schlesinger picked up his net and took an elevator to the building's 15th floor-a suite of law offices. "I think it's a vulture," muttered one of the lawyers apprehensively. "They say the market's dead, but this is really going too far!" At the lawyer's office, Schlesinger had his first dose-range view of the bird: not a vulture or condor, but a Rufus-necked horn bill, an Oriental bird who looks as if he tried to swallow a banana and couldn't. Rufus, as he came to be known during the two-day safari that was to follow, had a three-foot wingspread. His back and wings were a conservative gray, his tail white. His neck had a rusty-red tinge and his eyes had the shrewd, alert glance of a natural-born humorist. Taking advantage of the cover provided by desks and swivel chairs, Schlesinger stalked closer to the window. Rufus waited until the agent poised the net, then flapped away to a neighboring building. This time, he landed on a narrow ledge 29 stories above the street. Rufus perched there, watching with interest while Schlesinger crawled out on the ledge. Risking a glimpse downward, the ASPCA agent saw Wall Street packed solid with onlookers. It was a consoling prospect.
"If I fall," Schlesinger told himself, "I can't hit the ground." with this encouraging thought, Schlesinger took a deep breath and inched toward Rufus. The agent almost reached him, the net brushed the horn bill’s tail-then Rufus took to the air. By now, the newspapers had got wind that a man was climbing skyscrapers after a big-beaked bird. Adding to the crowd and the traffic jam stretching for blocks, came a couple of dozen photographers and reporters. "Hey, this is great," one of the reporters cried. "Nobody's working on Wall Street. Oh, brother, wait till you see those closing prices!" Oblivious of whatever financial havoc he might be wreaking, Rufus spread his wings and sailed from one building to the other. The horn bill had the advantage over the human from the start. Rufus didn't need to wait for elevators. Schlesinger did. "Hey, fellows," he called as the reporters crammed into an elevator. "Hey, fellows ..." The newsmen paid no attention. The doors of the loaded elevator closed and it departed, leaving Schlesinger on the ground floor. The ASPCA agent sighed and waited for the next one. Toward the end of the day, Rufus lit on another window ledge just outside one big company's conference room. Schlesinger picked his way past the frantic executives. "That bird," said the chairman ruefully, "has just broken up a million-dollar deal." True to form, Rufus flew off just as Schlesinger was about to net him. "I wish," added the chairman, "our board of directors could move that fast." Dusk began falling over Wall Street. At the agent's last glimpse of Rufus, the horn bill was winging silently toward the Hudson River. Rufus was looking for a place to roost. Schlesinger packed up his net and decided to do the same.
Next morning, the Weather Bureau wondered why its equipment had gone insane. The prediction for Manhattan and vicinity was hurricanes, followed by blizzards changing to monsoons later in the day. "That's Rufus," said Schlesinger. He hurried to the Weather Bureau. Thirty stories up, Rufus perched on the delicate meteorological equipment. Schlesinger borrowed a ladder, made his way to the roof and began climbing after Rufus. This time, the agent carried breakfast for the horn bill: chopped meat and cantaloupe, which is just what horn bills like. Rufus wasn't hungry. He gave up his position at the Weather Bureau and flew to Broadway, where he and Schlesinger spent the rest of the morning. Late in the afternoon, Rufus seemed to grow bored with the game. It was really no contest. He floated down to the top of a building and, of his own accord, walked through the open door of a pigeon coop. There Schlesinger found him waiting. Rufus made no protest when the agent picked him up and carried him to the shelter. Rufus, in transit to a zoo, had escaped from his chaperone. The horn bill was returned safely, the stock market went back to normal, the board meetings resumed and the Weather Bureau began forecasting again. What would have happened if the door of the pigeon coop hadn't been ajar remains open to speculation.
For Ryan himself, handling wild animals is a fifty-year-old story. Usually, before he goes out on a case, he has some idea of what kind of animal he can expect to meet. But one night, when the police emergency squad called him to a well-known midtown hotel, nobody was quite sure what he would have to deal with. "I don't know," the police inspector told him, "whether they're very big police dogs or very small wolves." The police had already put a cordon around the front of the hotel.
Ryan stepped inside and looked around. The desk clerks had disappeared. So had the bellboys. The lobby of the hotel, one of the busiest in New York, stood deserted. Comfortably stretched out on top of the registry desk, a lean, gray shape looked back at Ryan through eyes with an oriental slant to them. On top of a filing cabinet, another animal gave Ryan a toothy grin. The ASPCA agent ducked back into the street. "I have news for you," he said. "They're wolves."
"Yeah." The inspector nodded sadly. "I was afraid they would be."
"Where'd they come from?" Ryan asked. "Nobody stayed around long enough to tell me very much," said the inspector. "But I think they're living here." The wolves, as Ryan later found out, did in fact live at the hotel. A Russian trade delegation had made its headquarters there and one of the members had brought the wolves along with him. Usually, the Russian kept his pets locked up and the hotel management, not wanting to set off an international crisis, obligingly ignored the animals. That night, however, the Russians had been celebrating and, after a number of toasts in vodka, the delegate had gone off to bed. One of the room-service staff, coming
to clear up the debris, took one look at the wolves and departed immediately, leaving the door wide open. Delighted at this unexpected freedom, the wolves joyfully loped down the stairs and into the lobby. Two minutes later, they had the place to themselves. "I've never seen so many people clear out of a building so fast," the inspector said. Ryan estimated he could handle one wolf himself. He asked for a volunteer to help with the other one. For some years Ryan had lectured to the emergency squad on how to cope with animals, and one of his former students was in the cordon. "I'll go in with you, Ryan," he said.
"You've been telling me about all this stuff. I just want to see if it works." Ryan picked up a couple of pole lassos and the two men entered the lobby. "Don't shoot unless you have to," Ryan warned as he approached the desk. "And if you have to, try not to shoot me." A moment later, Ryan dropped his lasso around one wolf's neck. Vince, the police officer, followed Ryan's example. "We got 'em," he called. "Now what do we do with 'em?"
"That's an intelligent question," Ryan said. "The first thing you do is keep a good grip on that pole."
"You don't need to tell me," Vince said. "Then," Ryan went on, "we take them back to the guy who owns them."
"Take them back!" Vince cried. "Are you nuts?"
"Well," said Ryan, "they're his wolves, aren't they?" With Vince following, Ryan headed for the elevator. The Russian, he had learned, lived on the sixth floor. "We better not take them both up together," he advised. "You go in the elevator," Vince said. "I'd rather walk." Since the elevator attendant had vacated the hotel along with everybody else, Ryan worked the controls with one hand and kept the wolf at a safe distance with the other. The animal was surprisingly obedient, but it was the longest elevator ride the ASPCA agent had ever taken. On the sixth floor, he met Vince. One stouthearted bellboy appeared, pointed out the room and vanished again. The Russian was just waking up when Ryan and Vince stepped in. "Dushka!" he cried. "Sachkal My little cucumbers!" The wolves frolicked around him, whining happily. Ryan still held the pole. "Take my advice," the agent said, "get those cucumbers out of here." The Russian looked at him in amazement. "But they hurt nobody," he protested. "They are so lovable-"
"Yeah, I can see that," Ryan said. "But suppose they change their minds?", "No, no," the Russian insisted. "Never change minds...." "they get out again," Ryan said, "and bite somebody, the New York police aren't going to like it. The Health Department isn't going to like it. The whole sovereign state of New York is going to be pretty upset. The Governor's going to be mad-and the Governor carries a lot of weight with the President. From there it might get into Congress and once you stir them up ..." The Russian thought for a moment. "Bad for foreign pol-icy," he said. "The worst," Ryan said. The Russian nodded. "All right. You take care of them." After a few phone calls, Ryan arranged to have the wolves boarded at the Central Park Zoo. The Russian was pleased. He could, Ryan assured him, go and visit them every day. "Those wolves," Vince said later, "I thought they were going to give us a lot of trouble. It was a cinch." Wolves, Ryan explained, are pack animals by nature and recognize the authority of a pack leader. Usually the leader is an older, experienced wolf, but sometimes, with wolves that are used to humans, a man can take over that position. "Gee," said Vince, "can you imagine that! Me, the Chief Wolf!"
"Maybe this time," Ryan said. "But don't count on it. Next time, you might run into the boss himself!"
17 - The Doctor in Spite of Himself
Ryan handled the Russian wolves with only a pole lasso and a pair of gloves. Nevertheless, special devices can sometimes help in rescue work. Ryan has invented much of this equipment himself. Early in his career, Ryan figured out a way to improve the horse-slings then in use. With his design, one man can now put a sling on a horse in the space of one minute and the horse stays comfortable and secure. Ryan has used this one minute sling to fish horses out of cellars, rivers, building excavations and a dozen other places where you would least expect to find a horse. Many of the humane societies throughout the world have standardized on Ryan's design. Horses are not the only ones who get in tight spots. During World War II, Civil Defense people realized that on top of the possibility of having to cope with millions of frantic humans during an air raid, they would very likely have to cope with millions of animals-of all sizes, shapes and species. At that time, in the Society's special Animal Aid classes, Ryan added lecturing and demonstrating to his duties. He taught volunteers how to muzzle an injured dog, how to apply emergency splints and, in general, how to handle panicky animals during an air attack. Ryan showed his students how to tether horses caught on the street during an alert and, in case of air attack, suggested giving horses their feed bags whether it was mealtime or not. First, it would make sure that the animals had enough to eat in case they stayed unattended for any long period.
"And," Ryan added, "eating helps take their mind off their troubles." If the noise from exploding bombs should get too loud, Ryan also suggested a simple, homely remedy: putting cotton in a pet's ears. "There's not much else you can do," Ryan said. Animals' ears are much more sensitive than people's and the cotton would, at least, damp out some of the sound and shock. "It should work pretty good with humans, too," Ryan advised. As for animals marooned on rooftops or upper stories of buildings, Ryan, in cooperation with the Civil Defense people, adapted some of the principles of his horse-sling for the use of smaller creatures. But a good many of Ryan's inventions date from long before World War II. Like the horse-sling, Ryan's version of the pole lasso for dogs has been a standard piece of humane equipment for more than a quarter of a century. Aside from his inventions, Ryan has increased his arsenal with such humble items as onion bags, gunny sacks, balls of yarn and snakes (the flexible metallic kind that plumbers use). Ryan finds plumbers' snakes ideal for helping cats out of drainpipes and sewer catch basins. A good many times, the cat isn't actually trapped but simply too scared to move; in which case, Ryan soaks a gunny sack with sardine oil, attaches it to the end of the snake and inserts the whole business into the pipe. Then, like any cat-owner playing with his pet, Ryan wiggles the snake back and forth to lure the cat out. The sardine oil helps. It would take a determinedly disinterested cat to ignore the temptation. Cats often wind up in chimneys-and this is where the onion bags come in. Baited with liver or fish, the loosely woven, net like bags entangle the cat's paws just long enough for Ryan to drop a loop of rope under the forelegs and hoist the cat up gently.
The cat-pole which Ryan uses for bringing distraught cats out of trees is based on an item of grocery store equipment not to be found in today's supermarkets. Ryan, in fact, got his inspiration for the pole from a grocery store where he and his young bride, May, had gone shopping. Ryan had just come out of the army at the close of World War I, had returned to his work with the Society and had somehow managed to find time to get married. The newlyweds were in the midst of buying provisions when May noticed a rapt expression on her husband's face. "Look at that," Ryan whispered as the grocery clerk, armed with a pole, reached up for a box of cereal. "Suppose that box of cornflakes was a cat."
"If that box of cornflakes was a cat," May answered, "you'd have a big surprise for your breakfast." Women, Ryan decided, could not follow an obvious line of reasoning. He said no more about it, but for the next few evenings set about redesigning the grocery pole and transforming it into a fool proof cat-rescuing device. In place of the bare metal clamps, Ryan used a comfortable, padded, collar like arrangement. He also added some new wrinkles that would make the action smoother and more effective. Eventually, the gadget was perfected and, like others of Ryan's inventions, became standard in many different countries. But he put so much time on it that May, already resigned to being an ASPCA widow could only be thankful they hadn't shopped for groceries during their honeymoon. In addition to his inventions, Ryan has been known to dabble a bit in veterinary medicine. William Mapel, the Society's Administrative Vice-President, enjoys ribbing Ryan about practicing without a license. Ryan indignantly protests that he only admin
isters first aid.
But Ryan's first aid, especially in the days before the Society developed its current staff of veterinarians, has probably saved more animal lives than anyone could reckon. Ryan has a healthy respect for veterinary medicine-as long as it works; and while he admires the new wonder drugs, he has never forgotten how to use remedies handed down through generations of horse handlers. His private pharmacy includes turpentine, carbolic acid, oakum, collocation, iodo form, bicarbonate of soda. Ryan also gives the impression of knowing so much about herb-lore and horse-lore that, if he had to, he could gather his own raw materials in Central Park. One of his basic ingredients is whiskey. "For horses," Ryan says. "I never touch the stuff." With his first-aid methods, Ryan has eased horses suffering from lockjaw by rigging up complicated wick arrangements to keep their mouths and throats moist. Using a perforated pipe, Ryan has bathed animals to reduce fever. He knows how to neutralize stomach acid, empty a horse's colon-procedures which can be lifesaving if applied promptly. Ryan has worked on animals in the middle of the day or night, winter and summer, in deserted neighborhoods or in the middle of a Manhattan street. Usually, the bystanders don't have the vaguest idea what he's doing-except that he seems to be helping the animal. But he also has a stack of letters from people who have written to the Society, praising the man's amazing skill. Once, Ryan had a call to go to Sixth Avenue, where a grocery-wagon horse had fallen in the street. As soon as he examined the animal, Ryan knew it was suffering from azoturia, a condition of too much nitrogen in the urine. One of the horse's hind legs had already started to be paralyzed. Ryan administered a shot of colic medicine, emptied the horse's bowels and wrapped the animal in blankets. Then he called for the Society's horse ambulance to deliver the patient to the grocery company's stable, where a contract veterinarian could take over.