The types of animals one encounters in Manhattan are not the fauna David Attenborough would ever feature. Rats, mice, pigeons, cockroaches, cats. But, the wonderful thing about some animals is
Bleary eyed and still nearly comatose from a late reporting shift the night before like some impossible Rip van Winkle insomniac, I shuffled into the kitchen yesterday to pour my morning coffee. Brazilian roast with a dash of nonfat vanilla creamer. It is always a bit disconcerting to come back to an apartment when flatmates move things, change things, rearrange things - to always find things in a slightly different place. But that's only plates and magazines. What I did not expect was to see was a calico cat, sitting outside the kitchen window on the air conditioner.
This was curious for any number of reasons. One, that I live on the second floor, inaccessible by fire escape, ladder, terrace, or balcony. Two, cats don't materialize out of thin air to come to rest on cooling units.
Baffled by this feline invader, I tapped on the window. The cat looked at my quizzically, as though asking why I found it necessary to bother a leisurely 2nd story lallygag. "Cat, why are you here?" I asked, realizing how nonsensical it was talking to said Cat. A slow blink. A yawn.
I guess I got my answer.
I spent the morning trying to coax Kitty to a safer ledge. No luck. Then my roommate comes back. "A cat?" she says. "A kitty? On our window?" We called Animal Control. If they came, Kitty was on the express train to the pound. And the fire department, sadly, no longer practiced the long-cliche of rescuing cats from high, inconvenient places.
And thus began the ridiculous cum absurd rescue mission. Kate and I ran to the hardware store and purchased a few cardboard boxes, a long pole, duct tape, and (strange that it was sold at a hardware store) a feathery cat toy. As soon as we got home, we set out for the task ahead. The boxes were unceremoniously torn apart and fashioned into a crude kitty bridge. We put small bits of salmon on the end of the feathery toy. And we opened the window, hoping to lure her to safety. The cat would not budge.
Our landlord comes out into the alley between our building and the next. "What are you doing?" he calls up. We told him we were rescuing a cat. He brought up an old wooden plank that smelled of mildew. "Try this," he grunted. "and let me know if I have to clean up a dead cat."
No luck with kitty bridge/mildew plank. And Kate and I had to get to work. So the next day, Kitty was - without explanation - lodged in a small drainpipe across the alley. It was raining, she was cold and miserable. And then the landlord knocked on our door. "We found out whose cat it is," he said. "It belongs to your neighbor...on the seventh floor." The crazed owner was right behind him, in the emotional equivalent of a 15-year-old gymnast who just sprained her ankle at the Olympics. Nervous, to the point of tears, and without any trace of hope.
"You found Sheeba?" she sniffed.
It would have been a lost cause. Sheeba was stuck in the drain pipe. Luckily, our hipster neighbors came home at that very moment. Their window overlooked a small awning that had direct access to the pipe. Hipster Boy leaned out of the window and grabbed Sheeba, who was a little worse for the wear. Success!
Moral of the story? Don't let your cat by open windows, especially on the seventh floor. Another lesson to learn?
Cats fall out of the sky in Manhattan.
