CAT TALES
Whitley Strieber's Unknown Country: New Wave of Cat Mutilations
Many years ago, I worked at a cat shelter in Denver.
There was a this old lady who "volunteered" three-four times a week.
Basically, since it was a public building, she just came and fed the cats.
Never cleaning, mind you, for this shelter held 250 cats, and I got to clean up after them every day. Poor kitties only got a few minutes of human contact, a big scary shop-vac to swallow their mess, and the cage closed.......
Anyway, this lady thought every day was Ash Wednesday and had a fresh new smudge between her eyes every time we saw her.
I remember once when she got into a fist-fight with a pretty young muslim veterinarian student who came by once a week to treat the cats in Isolation. Girl would not let Old Lady into the IW because she kept interfering with treatments.

I worked at this shelter from the ground up, and after two years running we decided to have a Grand Opening.
Four Rooms of rows of cages piled three high, each with an adorable cat or two or three or four, and I took it upon myself to name every one of them.
I knew them all, how they reacted to their environment, to each other, to me, so it was rather easy. They practically named themselves.
Old Lady was told in clear terms to stay away on Grand Opening Day, as it was obvious she would scare potential adopters away.
You see, she loved the cats so much, she didn't want any of them to leave.
Sure enough, she shows up right when it's actually starting to draw a crowd, pulls out a tool belt full of needles, and proceeds to vaccinate these cats right in front of families agape in horror.
You know how cats react to needles.
Long story short, she needed to be forcibly removed from the premises by the Denver Police--in front of the horror-gaping families.
So I recommend to the Denver Police regarding these recent cat mutilations---look in your records for a mug-shot of a wild-eyed old lady with a smudge on her forehead.
Sorry, I never caught her name.
Another story about those days~
This shelter was strictly non-euthenasia.
We treated all cats the same--even the feral ones, and we had quite a few of those.
Strangely, the feral ones never bothered the tamer residents.
There was this one huge grey tabby named THOR.
I named him, of course.
He lived on the top floor of a three story setup, a position of power and prestige befitting his nature.
He was, however, at the end of what we called The Long Line, a stretch of warehouse lined with cages three-high on both sides, most of the critters too mean to be considered adoptable.
These were the hard cases, the one we dealt with....later, so to speak.
Because you gotta get the cute, fuzzy,amicable ones adopted and out you know.
But we never killed a cat because of it's disposition, or any other reason for that matter.
Every day THOR waited for me to finally reach his end of the compound. He watched me, shop-vac in hand, a scoop of food and water and as many kind words and good-kitty-kitty's as I could fit in as I tended to each tenant.
At least three times, he waited until I got to his section, jimmied the latch on his cage ( i actaully witnessed how he did it once) and batted furiously at me.
I still have scars.
This was not a cat that would tolerate a routine nail trim.
Once he had a fun time hiding from my co-worker while he imagined I was a tree.
Funny thing is we never had to persuade him to return to his pen. He did it very willingly, and I'll bet with great satisfaction.
I adopted two cats from that shelter, brother and sister, when they arrived as 6 month old kittens.
When our shelter first got them, they had the priviledge of living together in their own pen, complete with play-toys and plenty of room (considering) to be kitten-like.
But Old Lady didn't like that, and put the Sister in a PET CARRIER, relocated her atop two other cages in another room.
Her reason was that Sister had an upper-respiritory infection.
This cat was healthy, and I complained to the BOD to no avail. They didn't want to piss off Crazy Old Lady who donates money to the shelter.
(I should mention here that I did sneak Sister into Brother's pen so they could play, despite the risk of losing my job and 250 friends.)
Two weeks later, Sister was depressed as hell by the seperation and being stuffed into a suitcase, and actually got sick.
The irony here is that she was NEVER TREATED by Old Lady for the URI she got because of Old Lady.
She never reported it, and since I had to visit 250 cats a day and had no experience with such things.....
Once it was discovered, we gave her antibiotics and such and I decided that the two should not be seperated, so I adopted them both.
She quickly regained her health and the two were bouncing about my small studio apartment.
We'd turn off all the lights and they'd romp around with each other, and because of the static electricity in Denver, sparks would flash in the dark as their claws made contact with anything else.
But because she wasn't treated for the infection in time, she retained the most peculiar, low, gutteral meaow.
Sounded like a goblin.
Well, Brother died suddenly with FeLV, and Sister was alone again, but she did live a long life, even got to see Sheyn grow up to 8 years old. which means she lived to about 13, survived many cross-country moves, and only rarely ever complained. and when she did, it was with that low, unassuming goblin-growl.
I loved that cat.
Here is the only picture I have of her, and with an itty -bitty Sheyn in my lap. She's making sure I'm holding him right, such an attentive feline was she.
Used to curl up with us at nap-time.
I see alot of her in Phranq.

Soon, I decided to go into animal abuse investigation on my own, as we were getting many calls a day and Denver police and fire wanted nothing to do with them at that time.
Ironically, I discovered that the heads of the Board of Directors OF OUR BELOVED SHELTER were holding at least another 200 cats in a warehouse in the industrial district--the cats that don't make it to our ARAS.
I went to see for myself, and found such horrors there, I will not describe.
Such indescribable horrors.
I reported them and of course lost my job. And the shelter was closed.
Sometimes I just can't bear to think what became of all those cats, my friends,
after I got the shelter
I helped build
shut down.