VOLUME 1, ISSUE 3

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At first all you see is a small, gray house on a quiet street with three old cars in one driveway, a motor home in the other.  Then you notice the details.  There on the lawn, a small, long-haired gray cat, and two sleek black cats, and a tuxedo cat, and two tabbies, and, surprisingly, a big, beautiful Himalayan.  If you wait long enough, more cats come into view as others saunter away to the porch where tin plates of hard kibble are set out.

Some are full grown, some half-grown.  One cute kitten has bad eyes, one old tom has an abscess near his ear so big, he holds his scarred head to the side.  One black cat hops on three legs, then stops in pain because both front legs are sore.  You step across the street towards this - this tragedy.  Cats scatter in all directions - under the flat-tired cars, into the unkept shrubbery, behind some scrap plywood leaning against the wall of the carport shielding an old fishing boat.  You see other details.  Cat feces on the lawn.  Paper plates with grease spots from long gone soft cat food, a netless fishing net, signs for a tavern, a jumble of 2x4s, dingy glass jars, rusty tools.

Your eye strays up to the rafters of the car port.  Is it?  Is it?  Yes, it is.  A dead cat, dead so long all that is left is soft, pale fur, bleached bones, and white teeth.  You pick your way around to the back.  More feces, more paper plates, empty cat food cans, hard cat food in several bowls on top of a table made of plywood and sawhorses.  You glance into a doghouse.  Is it?  Yes, another dead cat.  A tabby could be taking a nap if you look just at the four legs, torso, and tail - but the head and shoulders are missing. You pick your way around to the side of the house.  Cat hair clings to a jagged hole in the siding leading into a room off the garage.  At least they have some shelter.  You open the side door of the garage.  The smell of cat urine is overpowering. 

As you leave the backyard, you see a cat streak under the motor home.  You get down on your knees to check him out.  The cat is crouching near a rear tire - next to another dead cat, dead so long, all that is left is half the skeleton and a few wisps of fur.  You don't want to think about where the rest of the cat has gone.

Four eight-week old wormy, ear mite infested, wheezing, flea ridden kittens, each probably from a different litter are rescued.  Actually one of the "eight-week olds" turns out to be a starved four-month old, so near death his pelvis felt like a hat rack, his breastbone as sharp as a pencil point, so weak he could barely walk and had to be hand fed.

More information comes out.  The owner, whose permission was obtained before going on his property, ("Do what you have to do, just don't tell me about it.  I love cats!") is an 80-year old who barely manages to hobble around even with two crutches.  His 77-year old wife is bedridden and dying of ovarian cancer.  Inside their house, more cats.   Not that you need to see them, the smell tells you they are there.

The neighbors tell you this has been going on for 11 years, that the mothers have the kittens up in the lumber strewn, car port rafters where sometimes the tiny bodies fall into the old boat underneath, that many times the toms kill the kittens.  You bite your tongue to keep from demanding, "Why haven't you done something about it!"

Well, something will be done now! Three determined women with five carriers, two blankets, and one big fishnet hatch a plan:  Try to herd the cats into the small room, then place the net over the hole, then go into the room to the scare the cats back out.

(Continued on page 5)