World without Cats (7 page)

“Wow,” exclaimed Noah, “there must be ten times as many as last time. They can’t all be locals.”

“No, they’re not. Look,” said Vera, pointing to a picket with a neatly lettered sign that read, “STOP SACRIFICING OUR PETS!” and, below that, “ANIMAL LIBERATION ARMY.”

Noah spotted more signs. “TAXES PAY FOR TORTURE” was claimed by CLAWS, and another: “ANIMALS HAVE RIGHTS TOO.”

“Look,” he said. “They’re picketing my research too.” He pointed to a sign that read, “STOP RECOMBINANT DNA CLONING!”

By now, Noah had been recognized by the mob, not surprisingly, as his photograph had recently appeared in
The Ventura County Star.
Noah remembered how furious he’d been when he’d read a spurious op-ed piece dealing with the perils of gene cloning. The editor, Douglas Kohut, had stated that any research involving recombinant DNA was dangerous and should not be allowed near Camarillo. The editorial had made mention of Dolly, the sheep that had been born as a clone back in 2002 and had died prematurely. Noah had exclaimed, “What the hell does that have to do with my research?”

Noah and Vera got out of the car. A thin-lipped, redheaded woman yelled louder than the chanters around her, “You Mengele! How would you like it if somebody used you for research?”

Shocked by the woman’s hyperbole, Noah nevertheless kept silent. He was keenly aware of an irony the woman could not possibly imagine. Years ago, his mother had told him that his grandfather and grandmother had perished under the knife of the Angel of Death at Auschwitz.

The crowd pressed in; Noah and Vera had to force their way through to the building. Noah slid his arm around Vera protectively, but she pushed him off, hissing, “I can take care of myself!”

By the time they got inside the lecture hall, it was packed. Vera had already told Noah of the committee’s conclusion, so that wasn’t a concern, but he was apprehensive about how the students and the public would receive it. He pulled a tube of antacid tablets from his pocket. Vera and Noah made their way to the stage, where they joined Lowell Stanaland and the already-seated committee members.

With the help of ushers, Norman Orgell distributed copies of the committee’s report to the audience. After Lowell Stanaland had brought order to the assembly with several sharp raps of a gavel, he introduced Orgell who then read from a prepared statement: “We have found that the controversy surrounding gene cloning research has been thoroughly chronicled in both technical literature and the lay press. We’ve learned that, in July of 1974, a committee of scientists engaged in recombinant DNA research had voted for a moratorium on such research until an assessment of the risks could be made.”

Noah nodded. Until now, he hadn’t realized the depth of the committee’s research. There was a murmur from the hall. Orgell paused to survey the audience. He cleared his throat and continued, “Our committee was impressed by the fact that it was scientists themselves who voluntarily restricted their research and who publicly expressed concern about possible hazards. The guidelines established by the National Institutes of Health—Dr. Chamberlin mentioned these guidelines at the previous meeting—grew out of these early concerns. Furthermore, we have examined Dr. Chamberlin’s facilities and found that all necessary safety precautions required for BSL-2 work are being observed.”

Orgell paused. “That’s Biosafety Level Two,”

Noah snuck a surreptitious glance to the rear.
Uh-oh,
he thought.
Lots of frowns.

“However, we have also read articles by several scientists who believe that such research should not be performed at all, or if it must be done, should be confined to BSL-4 labs. These views comprise a small minority.

“The committee is divided on the issue of using cats for research. The two student members, Ms. Anneke Weiss and Mr. Jaime Leal, remain in conscientious opposition to their use. However, Dr. Barnett, Mr. Yazdani, and I feel that the overall benefits, both to cats and to humans, far outweigh the opposing arguments.”

Yes!
Noah almost shouted it out.

“Dr. Barnett, by virtue of her professional expertise as a veterinarian, was able to persuade our two student members to allow Dr. Chamberlin to continue his work on condition that his lab be subject to a monthly inspection by Dr. Barnett and one of the students. Also, as Dr. Chamberlin mentioned at the October meeting, his facilities continue to be inspected four times a year by the CSUCI Institutional Animal Care and Use committee. Accordingly, our committee has concluded that the potential benefits outweigh the risks, and therefore we recommend that Dr. Chamberlin be permitted to proceed with his research.”

When Orgell finished his statement, there were shouts— “No! No!”— and an upwelling of murmured conversation. Stanaland rose and again waited for silence. “The committee has made its recommendation. Does anyone else care to comment before we conclude?”

There were scattered shouts from the audience. The time was now four forty-five p.m., and people were starting to leave. Lowell Stanaland stood and intoned, “As our ad hoc committee was fairly constituted and carried out its charge with due diligence, I believe it proper to accept its findings. The committee has recommended that the research be allowed to continue with the proviso that his facilities are to be inspected monthly by Dr. Vera Barnett and one of the student members. I presume, should either of the students leave the university, the responsibility will be passed on to another.” He eyed Jaime Leal, who was sitting in the third row.

Leal nodded. “I’ll bring that up before the student council at the next meeting.”

“Good. I’ll have the committee’s report, along with a summary of this meeting typed up and sent to the university president’s office and the Institutional Animal Care and Use Committee. I wish to thank the committee for its conscientious and thorough investigation. This meeting is adjourned.”

It was all over. Noah was free to proceed with his experiments. He was surprised at the suddenness with which the meeting ended.
It’s a good thing that the two students don’t know that Vera and I are literally in bed with each other.
He squeezed Vera’s hand.

Marty’s was a tavern in Old Town Camarillo frequented by university students and faculty members. It was minimally furnished with redwood tables, had sawdust on the wooden floor, and was dimly lit, mainly by a large Budweiser lamp over the pool table.

“Vera, I really appreciate the part you played on that committee,” said Noah sincerely.

“Noah, you understand that our friendship had nothing to do with what I did as a member of the committee. I voted the way I did because that’s where our investigation led.”

I wonder if she’s really that objective,
he thought. “I know. What I mean is, I appreciate that you took the time to really look into the matter—you and the other committee members. You people made a thorough investigation, and I’m grateful for that.” Noah’s face grew flushed. “You know, what we have witnessed here is democracy in action. A college community has become concerned about a scientific matter. A committee was formed to examine a highly technical subject. This committee educated and informed itself and ultimately reached the right decision. It really bolsters my faith in the reasonableness of people.”

Gary emptied his glass and poured another. “Doc, would you have felt that way if the decision had gone against you?”

Noah studied a droplet that was making an erratic journey down the side of the cold pitcher. He looked up at his companions and confessed in a voice just above a whisper, “If the decision had gone against me, I would have left the institute and gone elsewhere to do MEFA research.”

The next morning, after putting out fresh food for Bastette, Noah sat down at his laptop with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. Vera was running a shower. He accessed
The Star
website, where he found a brief report of the meeting on the third page. On the op-ed page, he found an editorial Noah figured was written by Kohut. It expressed disappointment with the committee’s decision and with Noah being allowed to continue to carry out recombinant DNA research.
The guy doesn’t quit.
He read on.
Whoa!
Kohut expressed hope that no ill would result from the work and urged the citizens of Camarillo and the students at CSUCI to accept the committee’s findings and let Noah get on with his work without harassment.

“Well, I’ll be a sonovabitch,” Noah uttered aloud.

Jake Moloney, a blackjack dealer at Harrah’s, drove by the city animal shelter in Reno every day on his way to work. He was preoccupied on this day with his daughter Irene’s fifth birthday four days hence. He had discussed a proper gift with Joan, but neither parent had any idea for anything appropriate. All they could think of were routine toys.

As he waited for a stop light to turn, Jake’s eyes fell on the sign “City Pound.” His brow wrinkled.
I wonder …

When he arrived home that evening, Joan asked, “Any ideas for a present? We’ve got to do something big. It’s her fifth birthday, for crying out loud.”

Jake smiled. “How about something very little that would make a big gift?”

“Oh Jake, she’s too young for fancy jewelry,” Joan objected.

“Not jewelry, a kitten.”

Joan frowned. The frown turned to a smile. “And just who would take care of this kitten?”

“Okay, we would, at first. But this would be a great way to teach Irene about responsibility. We could start with showing her that the cat always has to have water, then how to feed the cat … litter stuff, you know, all the chores we did with Tigerpaws before Irene was born.”

“Honey, that’s a marvelous idea. Do you know someone who’s got a kitten to give away?”

“I was thinking we could stop by the pound and pick one up there. You know they don’t cost much, and they’ve been given all the shots … all that stuff. How about you meet me at the pound about four thirty tomorrow. Leave Irene with Mrs. Golter next door.”

Joan put her arms around her husband and gave him a hug. “You have just won the most-thoughtful-father-of-the-year award.”

“Oh? What’s the award?”

Joan grinned. “You’ll find out later tonight.”

6
 

Three months after Noah had resumed his research, Vera and Kal at the clinic were examining the tender abdomen of a Rottweiler. When her phone sounded, Vera answered it with her customary, “Hello, Barnett the vet.”

“Vera, this is Dottie. Vera, I need you. My cats are sick, real sick. I’ve lost four of the darlings already.” Vera heard the agitation in her longtime friend’s voice. Sixty-three-year-old Dorothy Knowland loved cats; her home was thick with them.

“Whoa, honey. Calm down. Do you have any of those tranquilizers you take?”

“Yes but …”

“Well take one. I’ll be right over.” Vera shook her head.
Dottie and her cats,
Vera mused.
She must realize that with so many—I counted thirty once—there is a high probability that at any given time some will become ill or die.

Vera asked Kal to take charge while she was away from the clinic. She hopped into the Porsche and headed for Lewis Road.
Poor Dottie. So many of her friends think she’s a crackpot; she’s just a lonely widow. It’s her business if she wants to keep cats. I don’t know anyone who’s as kind, intelligent, and quick-witted. Sure, she’s eccentric …
Vera switched to gas and headed for the nearby community of Somis.

The two women had met shortly after Vera set up her practice in Camarillo. Several of Dorothy’s cats had come down with enteritis. She’d driven into Camarillo, looking for a veterinarian who would make the trip to her home in Somis, north of the city. Vera, unlike many vets, often did make house calls. She agreed to drive over to Dottie’s after the woman pleaded with her, contending that she had too many cats to transport to the clinic. Three other vets had declined to make the trip. Vera drove to Somis the very next day.

Over time, Dorothy and Vera had become good friends. Occasionally, Dottie would invite her to dinner, and the two women would converse at length on a variety of topics, from cats to casseroles. Vera valued her companionship. She enjoyed the tasteful, rustically furnished living room. Sometimes Dorothy would play the harpsichord after the meal, and Vera would lean back in an antique bentwood rocker, close her eyes, and lose herself in the music.

Turning into the driveway, Vera saw that Dottie was waiting in front. The chubby, middle-aged woman manifested a pathetic aspect, standing there in her cotton-print dress. Her hands hung by her sides, a kerchief clutched in the right one. Her graying hair was unkempt, and her usually smiling eyes were puffed and red. The two women hugged.