World without Cats (26 page)

“We both like animals. What’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say it was a problem. It was just an observation.”

“Okay,” said Vera. She took his hand. “One of the critters I most want to see is the giant panda. It’s on semi-permanent loan from China.”

“Good,” Noah replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a panda—just pictures. I do want to see the big cats. I haven’t seen a living feline of any kind in a while.”

However, a sign was posted on the door of the feline house. All the cats, including the large ones, were off-limits to the public. The same notice was posted on the fences of all the outdoor compounds.

By the time Vera and Noah returned to Camarillo, requests for the vaccine had begun arriving at the veterinary clinic. Vera noticed envelopes from the USA, Canada, Mexico and, in smaller numbers, from elsewhere in the world.

Vera and Jane sorted through the forty-odd envelopes.

“Look,” said Vera, “these two don’t have the required note from a vet.”

“I have one of those,” said Jane. “And here’s one with a vet’s note, but I think it’s forged.”

“Forged? Let’s see.” Vera nodded. “Good catch, Jane. ‘Hemorrhagic’ is misspelled, and there’s no DVM after the signature.”

On five of the applications, vets wrote that they could not be sure that the cats were free of FHF because the animals had high white-blood-cell counts.

In the end, Vera had identified two rather good possibilities—one a farm cat from eastern Iowa that apparently had had no contact with any other cat for over a year, the other from St. John’s Newfoundland. The latter was a cat owned by a woman who never let it out of the house and, because she was an invalid, did not go out herself. Her daughter brought her groceries but did not like cats and so avoided contact with the animal. In both cases the accompanying vets’ letters stated that the cats appeared to be free of FHF, and the owners were earnestly pleading for the vaccine.

Vera telephoned the vet in Iowa, a Dr. Parsons. He explained that the Wilson couple had a small farm near Grinnell where they raised corn and soybeans. The nearest farm to the Wilson’s was four miles away, and, as far as the vet knew, there were no cats in proximity.

“I took the obvious precautions before handling the cat,” noted the vet. “I scrubbed myself down with rubbing alcohol and put on Jim Wilson’s overalls.”

“Good thinking,” Vera replied.

“I also took a sample of the cat’s blood,” he continued. “With Wright’s stain, it appeared normal—no overabundance of leukocytes, nothing out of the ordinary. The cat certainly seems to be healthy.”

Vera said, “I’d like to meet you at the Wilson Farm. I could fly out, say, next Monday and bring the vaccine. Would that work for you?”

“Let me check … yep, that’s good. As you might guess, my practice has fallen off quite a bit because of this FHF thing. Fortunately, I’ve been able to make a living with farm animals.”

“Okay, then,” Vera said, “I’m going to book the flight.”

“Would you like me to pick you up at DSM? That’s the closest large airport.”

“Oh, that would be terrific. Thank you so much. I’ll send you an e-mail when I know my flight number.” She wrote down his e-mail address and sat back in her chair. She clasped her hands behind her head and closed her eyes.
If this vaccine doesn’t work, I’m going to fall apart … at least this Parsons guy seems to be competent … thank God for that.

“What do you mean?” Noah shouted when Vera told him of her planned trip. “You’re five months pregnant, you can’t go running all over the country!”

“Iowa, is not ‘all over the country.’ It’s one part of it, near the middle.”

“Don’t be facetious. This is serious.”

“Noah, my dear husband, pregnancy is not a pathological condition. I am perfectly fine. The morning sickness has stopped, and, apart from a little more fatigue than usual, I’m okay. I will not behave like a prissy, helpless, nineteenth-century female.”

Noah couldn’t come up with a response.

On February 22nd, about thirty-two-hundred cat lovers assembled in a Tokyo park to celebrate Japan’s annual Cat Day and to mourn the passing of so many adored felines. Ironically, the celebration—or, what used to be a celebration—had begun in 1987 when hundreds of cat owners had gathered in an auditorium to offer prayers for the longevity of their animals. They had also honored a famous cat that had traveled 222 miles to find its owner after having been accidentally left in the countryside. The date of February 22 had been chosen because two-twenty-two is pronounced
ni-ni-ni
, resembling
nya-nya-nya,
meow-meow-meow in Japanese.

Researchers at the National Institutes of Health and the CDC attempted, unsuccessfully, to produce virus-free kittens from FHF-infected mother cats by cesarean section. Unfortunately, the placenta failed to act as a barrier to the virus; all newborn kittens of infected mother cats harbored the virus at birth.

In many labs, both in North America and abroad, scientists attempted to grow the FHF virus in cell culture. They tested feline T-cells, B-cells, mixed spleen cells, liver, kidney, lung, and even cancerous muscle cells. The FHF virus refused to grow outside a cat’s body. None of the scientists could explain why.

At the CDC, biochemist Larraine Sakai purified the virus using high-performance liquid chromatography. She was able to produce only minute quantities of the highly purified agent. Much greater amounts would be necessary for the immunization of large numbers of cats, even if a way could be found to make FHF virus an effective immunizing agent.

Public-health authorities on all continents expressed concern about the increasing incidence of rodent-borne diseases. In Long Beach, California, an epidemic of rat-bite fever broke out near the docks. One hundred forty-seven cases of typhus were identified in Northern Germany near Hamburg, and another thirty-six cases in Copenhagen. At Tabriz in Northern Iran, yellow jaundice, commonly transmitted by rat urine, was traced to contamination of a local water supply by
Leptospira
bacteria
.

Chinese authorities attempted to deal with the booming rat population. Increasingly, rodents were making their way into factories, warehouses, granaries, and even tourist hotels. Spot-food shortages occurred in Northeast China and in Japan. Government officials considered a crash program to breed rat-killing snakes and weasels. Meanwhile, large quantities of zinc phosphide and sodium diphacinone were used to poison the rats.

Especially ominous was an outbreak of thirteen human plague cases in the Korean city of Musan on the Chinese border. In addition, forty-seven people had died of bubonic plague in northern Uganda’s West Nile region, and another four hundred and eighty were under treatment for the disease. The World Health Organization dispatched a five-member medical team to the area.

21
 

Larry Parsons was waiting in the airport lobby. Vera figured he was in his mid-fifties. A circle of gray-brown hair surrounded his smooth round pate, and he was dressed in blue jeans and red plaid flannel shirt. She supposed she’d be unable to tell him from a local farmer if she met him on the street. Parsons drove them east on Interstate 80 to Grinnell.

It rained heavily for most of the forty-mile trip through heartland cornfields and other crops Vera was unable to identify. To reach the Wilson farm, they had to travel a gravel road pocked with muddy chuckholes. Vera felt her swollen abdomen bounce in synchrony with the movement of the pickup. Whenever she saw a mud-hole ahead, she clenched her teeth and grabbed the sides of the seat.

“When’s the baby due?” asked Parsons.

“Late June, I think.”

He nodded. “Sorry about the bumpy ride. You must be feeling every jolt.”

“I’ll be okay.” She glanced at the man.
He seems like a nice enough fellow, she thought.
“I want to handle the cat as little as possible,” Vera said. “Because of my pregnancy, I don’t want to risk a cat scratch or bite. There’s also the possibility that I could be carrying FHF virus on me, and even though I’ll scrub with alcohol and Betadine, I think it’d be best if you hold the cat while I do the injection.”

“Sure,” replied Parsons. “In fact, I have a portable decontamination chamber complete with air pump in the back of the van. I thought we could set that up outside the house, decontaminate the chamber, and then have Mr. or Mrs. Wilson bring the cat to me after I’ve scrubbed and disinfected myself.”

It was obvious to Vera that the guy had really thought this through.
“That’s great, Larry. Thanks for thinking ahead.”

By the time they reached the farmhouse, Vera was feeling tense. Am I nervous because of the prospect of failure, she wondered, or of success? As they drove up, Mrs. Wilson emerged from the house and waved. Red-cheeked, chubby, and middle-aged, she reminded Vera of Dottie.

Protected from the rain by a large awning over the porch, the vets stayed outside, while Parsons explained the procedure to Mrs. Wilson. Vera glanced inside. She saw that the home was spic-and-span. A hooked rug lay over the hardwood floor, and she noticed a well-worn family Bible on the coffee table. A stitched sampler on the wall read, “God Bless our Home.” And there, sleeping by the warm hearth was the cat.
God,
right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

At that moment, wearing a dripping yellow slicker, a John Deere Cap, and smelling faintly of fertilizer and motor oil, Jim Wilson made his appearance. He removed the slicker and laid it over the porch swing. He smiled out from a two-day growth of beard and offered his hand. Vera looked him in the eye and shook it.

“What are the odds, Dr. Barnett?” he asked.

“What? Oh you mean of success with the vaccine? I think they’re pretty good. It better work, because it may be our last hope to save the cat species.”

The Wilsons read over the release form and signed it without ceremony. It was obvious to Vera that they had already given the matter careful thought and simply wanted to get on with the injection.

“I think there’s room for the decontamination chamber right here on the porch,” Parsons observed. He turned toward the van. “I’m going to get started.”

It took a half-hour for them to set up the equipment and start the gasoline-powered air pump. Once started, the motor made a racket. “It’s time for us to disinfect ourselves,” Parsons shouted over the din. “How about you go first. In the back of the van are bottles of Betadine and alcohol, cotton, and sterile protective gowns, caps, and booties.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“I try.”

Vera climbed into the van. She took off her clothes, except for underwear, thankful that the van was windowless. First, she swabbed her entire body with the Betadine.
I look like a pumpkin,
Vera mused as she glimpsed the amber tone it had colored her slightly swollen belly. She removed most of the Betadine with alcohol. Vera figured that there was no way FHF could survive the stuff. She finished her preparation by donning the sterile, white, plastic-coated paper jumpsuit, mask, and latex gloves left by Parsons.

When she emerged from the van, he prepped himself in the same manner. Vera reentered the van and loaded a syringe with the FHF vaccine.

“Okay, Joanne, you can bring Sugar over,” Parsons yelled.

The woman approached her pet, but the cat, frightened by the noise of the pump motor, squirmed and fought for release. The vet clasped the animal tightly and took her into the van, where Vera waited with the syringe. While Parsons held the cat still, Vera deftly shot 3 cc of the vaccine under the loose skin in back of the neck, avoiding contact with the cat. “An hour to prepare,” she uttered, “and thirty seconds for the injection. Hope it’s worth it.”

“God bless you,” said Mrs. Wilson when Larry handed Sugar back to her. “We never had no kids, you know. Jim had a war injury. Sugar is like a child to us.”

Vera replied, “Well, let’s hope for the best. But, you know there is no guarantee of success.”

“We read the news on the computer and watch TV,” said Joanne Wilson. “We know how it is. If the cats are dying, someone has to take a chance. I don’t think I’d want the world to be without cats.”

Vera was suddenly overcome, and she felt like crying. She stepped forward and hugged Joanne Wilson. She then shook Jim Wilson’s hand.

After she changed back into her travel clothes, Vera handed a booster dose of the vaccine to Parsons and noted, “The second shot should be given to Sugar in about a month. By the way, how old is she?”

“’Bout nine years, I’d say,” answered Jim Wilson.

“Spayed?”

“Yup.”

I would have been amazed if it wasn’t,
Vera thought.
We’re just testing the vaccine at this point. If it’s effective, we’ll have to face the problem of locating fertile cats that haven’t had contact with FHF.