"How many of you," Ryan asked, "does she plan to sue for false arrest?"
"Nobody," the officer said. "She's a good sport. I never met a soprano before, but Frieda Hempel's OK. She wants to talk to somebody at the Society. She's coming to see you."
"I don't know a damned thing about opera," Ryan said. "This doesn't have anything to do with opera," said the policeman. "It's about a dog."
Meeting an opera star for the first time, Ryan admitted to a certain amount of stage fright. But the soprano wasn't looking for applause or encores. She was looking, instead, for a small brown dog. It was only a mongrel stray, but Ryan realized that ancestry-human or animal-means nothing where affection is concerned. As Miss Hempel explained, she had met the dog quite by accident in Central Park. The little stray had such an appeal for her that she would have taken the dog home immediately. But while the dog was friendly it was also shy. The animal would accept food but would always carry it away to a spot Miss Hempel had never been able to discover. "Why do they think I am carrying a bomb all of a sudden?" she asked. "They should be used to seeing me in the park. I've been feeding my little dog there for the past five years!" Rather than start another commotion in the police department, Miss Hempel was willing to adopt the dog formally. But before she could adopt it, she had to get hold of it. "Miss Hempel," Ryan said, "opera's your business. Animals are mine. If you really want that dog, I'll have it here before the day's over." Ryan drove to Central Park, carrying with him a wire cage with food in the bottom-and a fast-closing door. He found the dog easily enough in the spot Miss Hempel had described. For a time, Ryan began to wonder whether he hadn't made a rash promise to the opera star. The dog sniffed nervously at the cage, then dashed off, reappearing later for another look. Ryan waited patiently while the little animal circled the cage. Finally, the temptation grew too great. The stray ventured into the cage and Ryan sprung the door. He had acquired one dog for one soprano. It took a week at the ASPCA shelter before the dog realized that civilization had something in its favor after all.
When the opera star arrived to claim her prize, the dog's manners were as good as any penthouse-raised pet. The former stray made a triumphant exit in the arms of the soprano. By way of apology, the police department sent Miss Hempel two dozen roses. "They are beautiful," the opera star said, "but not so beautiful as my little dog."
20 - The Cat's Meow
While the number of dogs in New York City shows signs of decreasing, Manhattan's cat population is on the rise. More New Yorkers keep cats than ever before. Apartment superintendents perhaps are more willing to tolerate a cat-and this is not overlooking the fact that it's a lot easier to smuggle in a contraband cat without a vigilant landlord being any the wiser. Another reason may be that city dwellers are beginning to realize that cats make ideal city pets. With living space at a premium in New York, most residents count themselves lucky to discover even a tiny apartment; two or three rooms and a foyer inspire New Yorkers with a giddy sense of endless vistas. A good-sized dog can take up a lot of this space without any difficulty at all, and still plead to be taken out for a nightly run. A cat can figure out ways to make himself comfortable almost anywhere, and believes in the principle of infinite riches in a little room. Economic and logistic considerations aside, it would be pleasant to believe that another factor operates in the growth of the cat's popularity: that more people are starting to like cats purely because of the cat's own remarkable qualities of affection combined with independence, gracefulness, intelligence and the ability generally to stay one up on the human he deigns to live with. People with touchy egos can be driven to despair by a cat's insistence on occasional periods of privacy and time for contemplation and meditation.
The owner who prefers wildly enthusiastic tail-wagging to subtler and perhaps more intense demonstrations of love may develop the nagging impression that his cat doesn't have a very high opinion of him. But these are childish reactions. It may be that we are starting to enjoy cats more because we are growing a little more mature, a little wiser. In any case, cats have patience enough to wait for us to catch up to them. In the United States, cats number between 21 and 28 million (dogs, 22 to 26 million), with about 1.9 cats per family. Some experts have also suggested that for every cat with a home there's a cat making its way on its own. No one knows for sure exactly how many cats live specifically in New York; even Ryan himself prefers not to venture a guess. At any one time, the Society may house a little better than 250 cats as guests in its shelters. Within a year, it receives almost 13,000 cats for home adoption and collects more than 10,000 lost, abandoned or stray felines. Total number of cats handled in a year goes above 81,000. The Society's hospital services examine and treat more than 5,000 cats each year. (Private veterinarians, taken altogether, see a much greater number.) At best, however, these are only small clues to New York's sizable cat population. Cats aren't prone to giving out census information, and statistics are hard to come by. The number of dogs is easier to estimate because of licensing requirements. Cats, in New York, don't have to worry about such details. Throughout the country, the question of cat licenses continues to come up now and again. Most legislators have wisely decided that cats are something special, that cats have been blithely ignoring the rather limited human concepts of ownership for about five thousand years and might just as well continue to do so. Cats, say some of the lawmakers, just won't admit to being owned by anybody.
A dog, most often, will answer to his name or come when his owner calls, thereby establishing some rationale of ownership. A cat, subjected to the same test, will as likely as not choose to ignore the whole business, depending on what mood he's in. Thus, ownership in the narrowest legal sense becomes a little shaky where a cat is concerned. Lawyers have reached this conclusion after many years of careful investigation and deliberation. Any cat-owner could have told them that immediately. In a way, the Society is relieved that cats don't have to wear licenses-on a humanitarian, rather than legal, basis. A cat obliged to wear a collar (to carry, in turn, a license) can get into an awful lot of trouble, such as catching himself on any kind of projection or finding a dozen other ways to become entangled. Although unlicensed, cats still enjoy every protection of the anti-cruelty laws and every facility of the Society. They need it, no less than dogs. Ryan, and most other cat experts, believe that city owners should keep their cats indoors, but the cats themselves don't all agree with this and the New York jungle is as fascinating as the regular kind for these miniature tigers. Uncomfortably and, sometimes, fatally so. Cats are ingenious, inventive, curious, imaginative, and in New York they demonstrate this by getting themselves into an implausible and colorful spectrum of difficulties. Ryan, who began as a specialist in horses and later moved to other, more unusual animals, has also spent a good part of his time rescuing cats. "Usually," Ryan says, "you can get an animal out of trouble pretty fast. With cats, it can take one hell of a while." Nothing involving a cat is really easy. But one thing Ryan has learned to cope with quickly is the classic situation of a frightened cat up a tree. Cats, as part of their inheritance, are expert tree climbers and have been since the first cat stepped out of the Ark.
As silent, stalking hunters their ancestors were equally at home in the trees and on the ground. The twentieth-century cat remains, deep in his heart, a competent woodsman. By all rights, he should be able to climb a tree as well as his distant forebears. Basically, he is able to do it. But as the well-known New York veterinarian Dr. Louis J. Camuti points out, a cat's claws curve forward. A cat has no problem climbing up something-but he has to climb down backwards. A young cat (and even a veteran) can suddenly turn panicky in the midst of this tricky operation, decide to stay where he is and broadcast to the world that he doesn't like it. The cat's panic in this situation is rivaled only by the owner's. Complete fire departments, including rescue nets, hook and ladder, have been called to the rescue. The commotion often terrifies the cat still more. Ryan prefers the quieter approach. He uses a light, padded pole,
something like the one grocers once employed to reach merchandise on a high shelf. This usually works quickly and effectively and does no harm to the cat except, perhaps, to offend his dignity. And, of course, there is always the chance that by the time Ryan reaches the scene the cat has figured out his own way of getting down. Other urban snares are not so simple. Cats discover ways of infiltrating sewers, drainpipes, inaccessible stairwells. They appear on ledges of high-rise apartments and office buildings, behind newly constructed walls. In many of these situations it would appear theoretically impossible for any animal to find its way there. But cats manage to do it. Like Santa Claus, cats are also partial to chimneys. Cats do land on their feet after a fall and have been known to survive a drop of several stories. On the other hand, a drop of only a few feet may sometimes result in a broken neck or fractured spine. Ryan once answered a midnight call from a woman whose pet had tumbled into a narrow, slot like area between two buildings.
Against all advice to cat-owners to keep their windows screened, the owner had left hers open. The cat, naturally, decided to explore the window ledge and a moment later found himself at the bottom of the are away, two stories below. Training his spotlight on the animal, Ryan judged the cat had suffered no damage. The tabby crouched on the cement far below, looking as tiny as a fly at the bottom of a well. Ryan's first thought was to get closer to the cat. "How about the people in the downstairs apartment?" he asked. "Will they let me go fishing out their window?" The woman went to investigate, found the apartment locked and no one at home. The stores and offices in the opposite building were shut. Ryan, who always carries a lasso with him, rigged up a fast-slipping knot and gained the required length by adding clothesline. While the woman held his spot light, Ryan leaned out the window. Like a deep-sea fisherman, he dropped his line over the side and slowly payed it out toward the cat. Below, the tabby eyed the approach of the cord. When it reached the bottom, the cat stood on his hind legs and batted it back and forth, as if Ryan had invented a new game. The woman was on the verge of tears; but the cat simply was not taking the business seriously. Ryan made a few more passes with the lasso. His aim was to drop the loop over the cat's shoulders and front paws; he did not dare rope the animal's head, for the noose would strangle the cat or break his neck before Ryan had a chance to hoist him very far. Ryan wanted the cat to step through the loop and he became rapidly convinced that the cat had no intention of doing so. From his arsenal of rescue equipment, Ryan took a bottle of sardine oil, soaked a bit of cloth with it and lowered the bait directly in front of the loop. The cat shied away to a corner.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said the woman. "He hates fish." Ryan sighed and retrieved his lure. "What do you feed him?" Ryan asked. The woman told him that the cat usually ate table scraps and, occasionally, canned dog food. She opened a can and Ryan prepared his bait again. This time, instead of stepping through the loop, the cat merely walked around to the other side and attacked the bait from the rear. Ryan hastily pulled it up again. On the following attempt, he dangled the food in such a way that the cat would be obliged to step through the loop. The cat decided he wasn't particularly hungry. Ryan wiped his perspiring forehead and suggested changing the bait. "He loves ham sandwiches," said the woman. "He's always begging whenever I eat one."
"We don't need to try a whole sandwich," Ryan said. "Just the ham." Even with this new temptation, Ryan's luck did not improve. "Lady," he said, "isn't there something he really likes?"
"Well," said the owner, "I suppose the best treat for him is chicken."
"Good," said Ryan. "Let's send down some chicken."
"I don't have any," the woman said. "I mean, I have some chicken but it isn't cooked."
"Cook it," said Ryan. The woman hurriedly set a pan on the stove. "He enjoys it Southern Fried," she said. "I don't care if it's chicken cacciatore," Ryan said. "You make it the way he likes it." In a little while, the scent of cooking filled the apartment. Ryan had to admit that even though the woman was careless about her windows, she was a better-than-average cook.
The chicken smelled delicious. At this hour of the morning, Ryan himself would have been willing to step into a lasso for some of it. The woman handed him a drumstick. Ryan let it cool for a moment, then hopefully lowered it to the cat without hesitation, the cat leaped for the bait. In a flash, Ryan tightened up on the lasso. A few seconds later, the cat appeared at the window and Ryan hauled him safely over the side. The cat still held the drumstick in his mouth. "Might as well let him eat the rest," Ryan said. "He deserves it." The woman fussed and crooned over the little tabby. The cat calmly continued eating the drumstick, as if frantic humans and midnight rescues were only a trivial aspect of his day and, at worst, a minor inconvenience. Ryan packed up his gear and left the apartment. Knowing cats, Ryan could not shake off the haunting suspicion that the little tabby might have engineered the whole affair on purpose. Cats generally end up getting what they want, through methods often complex and devious. As Sir waiter Scott told Washington Irving: "Cats are a mysterious kind of folk. There is more passing in their minds than we are aware of!"
21 - Airport Ark
In addition to the animals Ryan and other ASPCA agents hoist out of chimneys and rescue from skyscraper ledges, the Society cares for still another group: animals traveling by air. On the Society's quarter-acre site in the middle of Idlewild's Air Cargo Center, a herd of cows may graze peacefully one day, replaced, the next, by trumpeting elephants. A jet plane from Africa unloads a zebra looking as if it hadn't had time to change out of striped pajamas. Several hundred monkeys and 10,000 baby chicks unexpectedly show up for dinner, along with pandas, pangolin and polar bears. From Paris, London, Berlin, Tokyo, 175,000 animals so far 110 different species-have found rest, refreshment and shelter at the Society's Sidney H. Coleman Animal port. Built in 1958 at a cost of $300,000, the shelter combines (from an animal's viewpoint) the best features of the Waldorf-Astoria and Sun Valley-with the Mayo Clinic attached. For completeness of equipment, facilities, services and personal care, no other air terminal in the Western Hemisphere has anything to match the Animal port. Of all animals entering the United States from abroad, 80 percent arrive by air. Before the Animal port existed, the airlines people had to cope with live cargo themselves. The phrase more fun than a barrel of monkeys rings bitterly in the ears of men trying to run a busy airport. Once, a band of apes-obviously clever and well disciplined-made r a break for freedom.
In the course of the mutiny, they swarmed all over the control tower, as if they had determined to capture this strategic position first. In a bold encircling movement the control tower staff, reinforced by a division of cargo handlers, eventually got the apes back into the cages. Fortunately, the simians had not yet taken over the communications system; otherwise, pilots requesting landing instructions might still be circling Idlewild. Elephants have wandered out onto the runway; so have horses. From per-Animal port days, the story goes that a terminal official on hand to welcome a visiting diplomat noticed something peculiar about the crowd of journalists and photographers milling at the gate. The manager turned to his assistant. "That's a reporter?" he asked, pointing at a large chimpanzee amid the newsmen. The chimp's coverage might have been no less intelligible than the reportage in some newspaper columns, but not being accredited, he was nabbed and led back to his own quarters. Despite the facetious aspects, handling live cargo gave the airlines a serious headache. Baggage clerks, for example, don't really know what to do about lions; the learning process in this instance could be painful and possibly fatal. Not only might the humans be hurt, improper handling might injure the animals. Since the airlines had no proper means of caring for live shipments, the animals were, at best, uncomfortable and often neglected through sheer inadequacy of facilities. Delayed en route, animals went hungry, thirsty, overlooked or lost in the shuffle. With the stream of airborne animals growing bigger every day, the Society took one of the most imaginative steps in the history of the American humane movement. Hugh Pa
ine, the Society's President at that time, and the late Warren McSpadden, General Manager of the ASPCA, laid the groundwork for the project.
The expense of building and operating an adequate shelter at Idlewild would be enormous. But there was no question in anyone's mind that the animals needed help urgently. Airline officials welcomed the Society's proposal and the ASPCA swung into planning sessions for one of the most extensive and specialized installations it had ever undertaken. In Britain, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had, in 1952, opened the world's first shelter for animal air travelers. Arthur L. Amundsen, the Society's present Director of Operations, flew to England to gain firsthand know-how about running a shelter of this type. He also spent months in half a dozen European countries, studying their methods of air cargo handling. "We had everything to learn," Amundsen says. "The decision to build the Animal port had already been made, though at that point we didn't know much about feeding, health regulations and all the rest. We learned fast. We had to!" The shelter the Society envisioned would cost better than a quarter of a million dollars (it came out, at the end, costing $500,000 more). Architects and builders started work. Within only 18 months, Animal port opened to guests. Aside from planning for the health and comfort of just about every species of animal in the world, one of the knottiest problems was what to name the shelter. In the Society's opinion, 'hostel' sounded too British. In a burst of inspiration, the ASPCA's Mrs. George Fielding Eliot came up with "Animal port." By any name, the Animal port would be a blessing. "The ASPCA is fulfilling its purpose in providing an animal traveler's aid society," says Dr. Leonard Goss, director of the Cleveland Zoo. The assistant cargo supervisor for one of the big airlines adds, "There's simply no comparison today with what it used to be around here."