World without Cats (10 page)

“She’s my mother!” Sam shouted.

“Sam, I love her as if she were my own mother, but I can’t do this anymore. Yes, she’s your mother. I’m your wife. You’ve got to make a choice. We can afford to place her in one of the better care facilities.”

Eventually, they settled on the Van Buren Home for the Aged in Cleveland. Although it was a half-hour drive from their suburban home and pricey, the facility had a good reputation.

Sarah asked the intake nurse, “Will Mrs. Neidleman be able to interact with the other patients?”

“Absolutely,” replied the nurse. “We schedule social events every day. We’ve found it helps the Alzheimer’s sufferers greatly. By the way, we don’t use the term
patient
here. These elderly men and women are
residents
of the Van Buren Home. This is not a hospital.”

“That nurse got her hackles up when I used the word
patient
,” Sam noted.

Sarah smiled and reached over, placing her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “That’s a good thing, Sam,” she said. “It reveals the philosophy of the home. I think we’ve made the right choice.”

8
 

As he drove home, Noah’s emotions ran the gamut from anger to guilt. Could Vera’s theory be sound? Could the feline-sarcoma vector have acquired the ability to cause leukemia and gotten out of the lab? Am I responsible for this disease? That’s not possible … or is it?

When he arrived home, Bastette was not in sight. Noah found her in the living room, curled up in a corner. That morning, he’d noticed that she wasn’t eating much. That night, she shunned her dinner entirely. She didn’t act particularly sick, but, when Noah lifted her, she yowled. He froze.
Oh, no, no, no. Does she have the same disease?
Noah set her down gently on the sofa and started to telephone Vera. He held the phone in midair for several seconds and closed it without making the call.

An hour later, it rang. It was Lowell Stanaland. “Noah, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your friend Dr. Barnett has requested an emergency meeting of the biosafety and animal-care committees. It’s tomorrow morning at nine thirty. You should be there.”

All members of the Animal Care and Use Committee were present, but only four of the five biosafety committee members showed up. Noah, who had not slept a wink, sat tight-lipped and stared coldly at his accuser. He wondered if one could simultaneously love and hate the same person?

P. Merrill Morton brought everyone up to date on the latest bacteriological results. All of the samples were free of bacteria. The disease had to be viral.

Vera reviewed what was known about the epidemic and told them of her theory as to its origin. She urged the committees to prohibit Noah from continuing with experiments. “I see no other way to prevent further spread of the disease,” she concluded.

Noah looked around the room to gauge how the committee members were reacting. Biological Safety Officer Andrea Vernon took notes as Vera spoke. Dr. Jerome Robinson, Ventura County’s health officer, leaned back in his chair, his large, black hands held as if in prayer against his pursed lips. Dr. Stanaland, brow furrowed, drummed his fingertips on the tabletop as Vera spoke—a mannerism Noah found irritating.

“I feel somewhat guilty myself about this,” Vera said. “I was a member of the committee that originally looked into the possible threats from Dr. Chamberlin’s experiments.” Noah saw that she was avoiding eye-contact with him. “I really think,” Vera concluded, “that these experiments must stop until we are sure that the disease did not start at the institute. The evidence suggests that it did.”

“Dr. Stanaland, do you have any comment?” asked Andrea Vernon.

“No, but I would … no, never mind.”

Vernon turned to Noah. “Dr. Chamberlin?”

“There is absolutely no evidence that this epidemic started in my laboratory,” said Noah, speaking in a monotone through clenched teeth.

Jerome Robinson spoke. “We should get an epidemiologist on this. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even though it’s not a disease of humans—thank God for that—it seems to be so devastating to cats that we should seek outside help—someone from the UC Davis Vet School, or maybe even the CDC. I’ll contact the State Board of Public Health and see if they can get the CDC involved.”

“Getting back to our question,” Vernon said, “are we ready for a vote?”

Nobody spoke.

“I’ll take that as a yes. All in favor of implementing a ban on Dr. Chamberlin’s research, effective immediately, and until further notice, raise your hand.”

The vote was unanimous; it effectively put Noah out of business.

Noah went straight home without speaking to Vera. Bastette failed to greet him. He called her. “Bast! Bastette!” Noah looked through every room.
No cat.
He feared the worst.
Oh God, no.
Outside the back door he found her. She lay, not quite dead, eyes glazed, in a small pool of bloody vomit. Noah took her in his arms and went inside. Tears welled in his eyes. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen and gently wiped Bastette’s mouth. He thought he felt a faint purr, but, moments later her chest heaved, and she was gone. Noah sat for a long time, his once-active, playful friend in his lap. He stared at the wall and pondered the intensity of the bond that develops between man and beast. Finally, he went into the kitchen for the first of what was going to be many bottles of beer.

Noah was not much of a drinker, and he awoke the next morning with a furious hangover. As usual, he felt around for Bastette, and then, as he remembered yesterday’s events, he remained motionless for some minutes, unable to accept that Bastette was dead. Finally, he found the energy to get out of bed and unsteadily made his way to the bathroom.

Noah put on his jacket, went out the back door, and grabbed a spade. Without emotion, he dug a shallow grave for Bastette under a pine. Unmindful of the dirt he tracked through the house, he fetched the cold feline body, gently wrapped her in a pillowcase from the linen closet, and carried the enshrouded corpse outside and laid it gently in the grave.

Noah stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do next. What does one do when burying a cat? For people, there are rites, but what do you say for a cat? Though he made an effort to stifle the strong emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, a heaving sob forced its way out. He cried openly as he threw soil into the small hole. Shortly, he had covered the remains of his harmless, necessary companion.

Noah forced himself to go into work. He had a lecture at nine, and, short of complete incapacitation, he wouldn’t think of missing a class. With difficulty, he reviewed his notes, but his mind wasn’t on biochemistry. This morning’s lecture on nucleic-acid structure would not be up to par. Prior to class, as Noah sat at his desk, attempting to go over the material, Gary and Alicia appeared at the office doorway in an agitated state.

“Doc, what the hell is going on?” Gary asked. “There’s a note on the door of the lab saying the lab is quarantined. Nobody’s allowed in.”

Noah nodded. “They think that this cat epidemic started right here. Dr. Barnett does anyway. And I’m not so sure they’re wrong. Alicia, I’ve arranged for you to work in Dr. Ivinson’s lab until this blows over.”

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Chamberlin,” replied the technician. “I know this is a difficult time for you.”

After Alicia left, Gary stood there, open-mouthed. Finally he said, “Jane told me about Dr. Barnett’s leukemia theory, but she didn’t tell me anything about us being implicated.”

“Well, we are.”

“How am I supposed to finish my work? Who’ll feed the cats? Who’s going to transfer the cell cultures. They’ll die out if they’re not transferred and fed.”

“Gary, relax. This will pass. You can continue to work on your thesis. In fact, you’ve gotten a little behind in your writing, and this is a good opportunity to get caught up. As for the cats, I’m sure they will let us in to take care of them. I’ll discuss it with Dr. Stanaland.”

As if on cue, the head of the institute showed up at that moment. “Have you two seen the morning paper?” he asked. He tossed a printed copy of
The Star
onto Noah’s desk. He and Gary stared at the paper blankly. “Kohut’s grinding his axe today, and we’ve provided the whetstone.”

Noah read the bold headline aloud: “CSUCI lab source of Camarillo cat epidemic.” He looked up at Dr. Stanaland and exclaimed, “This can’t be happening!” Noah read the body of the article in silence while Gary read over his shoulder. He quickly realized that the article was filled with misinformation and innuendo as well as opinion, which properly belonged on the op-ed page. Noah looked up. “This is outrageous!” he exclaimed. “It borders on slander.”

“Libel,” Stanaland corrected, “and I believe Kohut has crossed way over that border. I’ve got the university’s legal department looking into it.” He regarded the scientist and the graduate student somberly. “Noah, Gary, I want you two to keep level heads during this crisis. Most of your colleagues, myself included, think it unlikely that this feline leukemia started in your lab. We’re simply the victims of a bizarre coincidence. On the other hand, we can’t entirely rule out the possibility that the disease did originate here. Noah, go on with your teaching and use any extra time to catch up on your technical reading. And, Gary, you could work on your thesis. I understand you’ve fallen a bit behind.”

Gary exchanged a glance with Noah and smiled wanly. He then said, “Dr. Stanaland, we’ve got to go into the lab to take care of the cats, and, if we don’t keep up the cell cultures, they will all die out.”

Stanaland nodded. “I don’t think the IBC would object if you maintained the lab. Just don’t do any cloning experiments.” Without waiting for Noah to respond, he turned and strode out of the office.

“Let’s take a look at the cats,” Noah suggested.

A foul odor greeted them as they entered the cat room. Four more cats had died during the night. “If this keeps up, we can forget about doing any research, even if the ban is lifted,” observed Gary.

“Bastette died yesterday,” Noah blurted.

“What?”

“My cat Bastette died.”

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry. I guess it’s the same disease that’s getting our cats.”

“What if they’re right?” Noah said dubiously. “Maybe we did start the epidemic, but I can’t think how.”

When Noah left for the day, he encountered a crowd of people milling about the entrance to the institute. He recognized some of them as animal-welfare supporters who had been present at the meetings of last year when he had been forced to suspend his research. He spied several T-shirts bearing slogans: “Stop research on sentient creatures,” and “Vivisection is the work of the devil
.” The Star
was also represented, and, when the photographer spotted Noah, flashes went off, one after the other.

When the demonstrators recognized Noah, they began yelling obscenities. Soon they were chanting in unison. “Cat-killer! Cat-killer!” A reporter from
The Star
pushed through to Noah. “Dr. Chamberlin, do you have any comments about what you’ve done?”

Noah glared at the young man and replied, “What have I done?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back into the building and exited through a small service door at the rear, unseen. He asked himself,
What have I done?
He turned Vera’s theory over and over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he became obsessed with the possibility that the cat sickness had actually started in his lab.

For what seemed to her the hundredth time that week, Vera drove out to the Knowland house. She did so, not because she thought she could be of any help to the remaining cats there—she fully expected all of them to die—but out of compassion for a dear friend. When she arrived at Dottie’s, Vera sensed that her friend’s mood had changed since yesterday—no crying this time. Rather, Dottie’s inner strength had surfaced. Determination showed on her face; she was ready to brave the worst. Vera placed three more dead cats in a large plastic bag—for disposal, not examination. There was neither time nor need for performing necropsies on every dead cat. She did, however, make a cursory examination of some of the still-living felines. There were no surprises. “There is nothing I can do, Dorothy. I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s not your fault. The newspaper says that it all got started up at the university. They think your Dr. Chamberlin had something to do with it.”

“That’s a possibility,” said Vera. She was suddenly aware of how serious an effect this disease was going to have on Noah’s career. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll check back with you tomorrow.”

Vera hastened out the door, fumbling with the sack of corpses, which impeded her retrieving the car keys. She wanted to cry.
Damn it!
This is just horrible.
The bag slipped from her grip. A feline head protruded from the fallen plastic. Vera herself sank to the ground. “Oohhh … fuck.” The tears came. She managed to get the door unlocked and sat in the Porsche, unable to turn the key, unable to think clearly. She sat quietly for a long time, her sorrow metamorphosing into anger and resolve.

At Vera’s urging, Mayor Yoshino called an emergency meeting of the city council. It was a chilly Thursday evening, and the five council members sipped hot coffee in Vera’s living quarters. “I’m sorry to call you here on such short notice,” said the mayor, “but Dr. Barnett considers this an extreme emergency.”

“You realize,” noted Councilman Amend, “that this meeting violates the Brown Act.”

“I know it does,” responded the mayor, “but Dr. Barnett believes that time is of the essence. As soon as we’re finished here, I’ll post a summary of the meeting on our TV channel and our website. In any case, the Brown Act has a provision for emergency meetings in the public interest. Mrs. Schubert, would you mind serving as recording secretary?”