At 6 a.m. I tumbled out of bed, fed the alcohol cats breakfast, pulled on some clothes, and left my apartment. In the blue winter light of Boston I walked, through the Public Garden, down Arlington Street, to the animal shelter. We covered the floor of the vet clinic in sheets of plastic and gathered all of the supplies that were carefully boxed and labeled from the previous clinic. At 8 a.m. the trappers arrived. We tagged each cage with a number and surgery card, surveyed the cats to make sure they were not sick or injured, and lined them up in the heated garage.
One by one, each cat was brought into the welcome area of the vet clinic where they were sedated, weighed, and given Genteel (a Vaseline-like gel that protects and moistens their eyes). Most cats, let alone feral ones, aren’t super happy about getting poked with a needle, but Deb was swift and a couple cats jumped back, completely unaware that they were about to be given an injection. For the more difficult ones, a pitch-fork–like instrument kept the cat to one corner of the trap, making it easier to get at them. Continue reading “Fixing Ferals”