Elizabeth Street

Unless you have business on the one block that is Elizabeth Street, you might not even know it's there.  It's a tiny side street, poorly marked and mostly overlooked, a pass thru more than anything else and except for the fact that its clearly seen better days, the last house on the left is barely noticeable. 

I doubted it had ever been a showplace but with its screened in side porch and wide veranda, I suspected it had once been distinctive. Now, it was just this side of a ruin. The porch screens were in tatters, ripped and shredded in places, hanging by a thread in others. The roof sagged with water damage, the concrete steps were chipped and fractured. The entire paint peeling exterior looked battle scarred with age and neglect and I suspected it wouldn't have taken much pressure to bring the three supporting columns down in heap and most of the house with them.

It was just one of hundreds if not thousands of forgotten and abandoned properties you find all over this city, neighborhoods gone to seed, their dignified and genteel homes left to wither and rot. But for the construction site I'd had to detour around, I'd never even have seen it and even seeing it, I'd never have paid much attention except that it was covered up in cats.

A half dozen assorted tabbies are playing on the veranda, stretched out and sleeping on the steps, peeking out from behind the shrubs. One black cat, perilously thin, is balanced on the remnants of a window sill, another is halfway up a tree, all four paws wrapped around its slender trunk. A third is indifferently perched atop a discarded cat carrier, grooming itself casually. An uncommonly fat Siamese reclines on the edge of the roof, paws crossed and tail switching while next to her, yet another tabby looks on and a long haired gray tiger cautiously peers out at me from behind a nest of ivy and tangled leaves. I count thirteen in all and those are only the ones I can see. In spite of the food bowls and water dishes and makeshift shelters scattered randomly across the porch, I have a sinking feeling that the cats are like the house itself, sickly and in sorrowful need.

I can't shake the idea that there are photographs to be had here so later that day I come back with my camera. The only human among all these cats is now present, porch sitting in a beat up old leather chair, smoking and listening to a tiny portable radio. His name is Randy, he tells me and he's lived here for 17 years. He has no real idea how many cats there are anymore, he admits, but I'm more'n welcome to take all the pictures I want, anytime I want.

“They come at night,” he tells me and shrugs, “And then they just sorta stay. Got two in the attic with newborns. It ain't much but I feed 'em best I can and I'm always tryin' to find homes for 'em. You need a cat, lady?”

It strikes me that all too often those among us who can afford the least, often try to do the most. And sometimes it's that very kindness that does the most damage.

I wrestle with it for three full days, trying to balance Randy's good intentions and the health of the cats against the health risks of both.  Granted, bringing food might benefit the cats but it would also make me part of the problem.  Calling the city was an option but it would surely bring about the death of every cat they could trap (not necessarily an un-kindness, I remind myself brutally but not something I wanted to part of either).  Despite the staggering number of animals involved, trap, neuter and return seemed the only viable option and although I had no idea whether Randy would agree to such a strategy or not, I decided it was worth a try.  Reluctantly, I call someone I know at the parish commission, someone I know to be an animal lover and who I hope will have a gentle enough touch to help. 

It's several weeks before I pass by the house again.  There's not a cat in sight and no sign of Randy. 

I hope it was a happy ending but I find myself wishing I'd never seen the wretched old place.