The van rumbled to a stop in the outer reaches of San Francisco, and we were greeted by two adorable children who'd been feeding the feral colony (their mother wasn't so confident with the English). SPCA volunteers are happy to come to folks' backyards and parking structures to capture and spay feral cats -- but only if the people making the call will continue to feed the animals (like many city cat enthusiasts, Biswas disregards claims that feral cats decimate local bird and rodent populations. He doesn't think most cats are smart enough to snare birds, and notes that cats won't hunt mice unless trained to do so at a young age by their mothers. He adds that, until recently, the SPCA suffered from a severe mouse infestation while housing hundreds of healthy cats).
After quizzing the children on the cats' favorite feeding spots, Biswas unloads the long, rectangular traps. He cracks open a can of pungent, tuna 'n' sardines cat food -- "the fishier the better" -- and scoops the glop into a paper, fast food-style tray. With an expert hand, he deftly places the feast in the back of the cage, and dribbles a a few choice drops on the pillow case concealing a panel that, once depressed, will drop the trap's gate behind the hungry cat. He dribbles a few more dollops on the cement creating a trail leading to the trap's entrance, recalling a fish-centric Hansel and Gretel. When asked what came next, Biswas smiled. Now -- we would wait.
Hunting for cats turned out to resemble fishing expeditions -- or, we imagine, waiting in a blind for a passing deer. SPCA volunteers Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak regretted that they hadn't picked up a case of Bud for the long wait. After more than an hour in the van watching over the untouched traps, a small, unkempt black cat sauntered across the parking lot -- and proceeded to meticulously groom himself while sitting beneath a Ford Focus. His grooming ritual lasted another 20 minutes or so; next time I'm bringing two cases of Bud.
The three bona fide cat lovers next to your humble narrator began cajoling the stubborn feline -- although they did so in their "Here, Kitty Kitty" voices, interestingly enough. Finally, the feral cat cautiously ambled across the open ground, sniffed the food Biswas left in outside the trap, and snapped up a sardine tail which he carried back to the safety of the Ford Focus. He stayed there another half hour or so.
More cajoling and experiments in mental telepathy didn't seem to budge the cat (three cases -- shoot, no, a pony keg. I promise). Finally, however, the feline scampered, once again, across the lot. He sniffed the trail of food. He followed the trail to the mouth of the cage. He ducked his shoulders. He ... ran like hell when a car pulled off the street and noisily parked in the lot. "Perfect timing," mumbled Biswas.
Another half hour went by. A second cat -- the tortoiseshell we'd been warned about -- materialized. Thoughts of bagging not one but two feral kitties danced through our heads. Perhaps this wouldn't be a feline re-enactment of Geraldo's caper with Al Capone's vaults after all. And, perhaps we'd catch that third cat as well. That cat loping toward the trap with the huge black-and-white stripes on his tail. That cat who looked extraordinarily like -- a skunk!