What must be done, shall be done

Two days. 14 Good Samaritans. 9 Post-it notes. A clarion call on NextDoor. A car hoisted on a jack and then forcibly opened: how a neighborhood came together to rescue an oil-covered feral kitten in mortal danger when Animal Services and other public agencies refused to help.

Monday morning, when the owner of an unassuming Nissan Sentra parked on an Oakland street corner got into their car to go to work, they did so unaware of the nerve-racking but ultimately heartwarming drama that unfolded over the weekend, in which their vehicle played a starring role. What the owner of that car doesn’t know, and probably never will know, is that their car was the subject of over a dozen men and women, including my son, who took matters into their own hands to rescue an oil-covered feral kitten that had taken up residence in their car’s engine block.

At one point, the car had 9 Post-it notes all over it warning the owner of the vehicle about the kitten. It was up on a jack, unlocked with a wire coat hanger, the hood popped open, and various engine parts removed. Today, that kitten lives with my daughter, and the car’s owner is none the wiser.

This is that story.

On Friday evening, I received a call from my son. He and his girlfriend were walking near his apartment when they saw a woman looking under a car. She told Will that she could hear a kitten in distress. The kitten was meowing for her mother, and looked to be about 6 weeks old.

Will could see the kitten under the car, and went to get cat food, hoping to lure the kitten to him. But whenever he approached, the kitten would climb up under the car and into the engine block, out of reach. For hours, he tried to gently coax the kitten to him, playing mother cat sounds on his phone and offering her food. But she was a wild one and would not come near.

Joining the rescue effort, my wife and I brought two kitten traps and more food. Despite her plaintive calls for help, this little kitten would have none of it and refused to go into the traps. Standing vigil and hoping she would eventually decide to do so, my son spent the night in his car parked nearby, window cracked, waiting for the sound that every rescuer rejoices to hear — the metallic clank of a trap door closing. It was a sound that never came. By 4:00 a.m., it was time for Plan B.

Will called me concerned, and I hatched a new plan, telling him I would bring a cardboard box and a cat stuffed animal. A half hour later, we placed the toy beneath a tilted box we had rigged to fall with the yank of a string and on top of a phone looping a YouTube recording of a mother cat calling her kittens.

But too clever for her own good, this little kitten refused to take the bait. Drawn to the mama cat’s calls but suspicious of our setup, she circled but never entered our trap. As minutes turned to an hour and dawn began to break, the birds started to sing, and dogs and their people emerged from their homes to populate the sidewalk on their morning walks. The nervous little kitten ran back under the car and out of sight once again. That’s when the next character in our unfolding drama entered the scene.

The night before, when we arrived in the neighborhood and I scoped out the location, I turned to my wife and made a prediction: I bet there are feral cat caretakers in this neighborhood. My intuition was confirmed at daybreak when Will and I spied a woman on a bike affixed with a large basket brimming with what appeared to be cat food. Entering the park across the street, she emerged a short time later. I approached her, disheveled from a sleepless night, and asked, “Are you feeding the cats?” As anyone familiar with the ingratitude and hostility with which such kind-hearted and well-intended animal lovers are too often greeted will understand, she was quick to reply, “No.”

Anxious to win her trust and signal that I was a kindred spirit, I pointed to the “Love a Feral” tattoo on my upper arm. “I do cat rescue,” I said. “Yes,” she said, changing her answer. I told her about the kitten, thinking that the little cat was probably part of her colony. “I got this," she said, “I'll take it from here.” Relieved, grateful, and exhausted, Will and I went to our respective homes to get some sleep.

A short nap and a few hours later, Will returned to the scene, hopeful to discover that the kitten had been rescued. Instead, he found that the car had been plastered with 9 Post-it notes warning the owner about the kitten in the engine block. Alas, the stubborn little kitten had foiled her would-be rescuers yet again and was still calling out in distress. Time for Plan C.

We needed a car jack. Will set off to buy one, then hoisted the car up so he could slide underneath, a maneuver that — admittedly and in retrospect, predictably — only encouraged the kitten to ascend further into the engine, even more out of reach than before. Discouraged but not dissuaded, we decided that no solution, no matter how preposterous, would be rejected. And that’s when we settled on Plan D.

Might someone who is paid to do this work, at least in theory, know something that we don’t know? Might they have a tool or tools that we don’t have? Of course, after decades of trying to reform our broken animal sheltering system and living in the city with the most dysfunctional local government in the country, I knew better. But with nothing left to lose, and fear that the owner of the car might any moment arrive in need of its services, it was time to bring in the highly-paid “professionals.” This, dear reader, is where you conjure the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme song inside your head.

Will called the Oakland Police Department for help. Could they open the hood for us or run the plates and notify the owner to open the hood for us, he asked. They would not.

Next, Will called Oakland Animal Services and received a voicemail. When they called back, they informed him that, despite receiving many of these types of calls, their policy was to do nothing. They would not be coming and would not be helping. However much the tax-paying, animal-loving citizens of Oakland might rightfully expect it to be otherwise, rescuing a tiny, scared kitten from a car engine who is in danger of death by one of the most horrific ways possible is not part of their job description.

This disappointing sentiment was soon to be echoed by the next public agency we attempted to enlist: the Fire Department. Those romantic notions planted in your mind by popular culture of firefighters rescuing cats from trees and other dire straits? If they ever existed, those days are long gone, at least in Oakland.

Undeterred, ever the optimist, and fortified by a can-do attitude and love for animals sorely lacking in our public agencies, Will set off for the Department of Motor Vehicles conveniently located just down the street, hoping to get the car owner’s contact information, and with it, an open car, then an open hood and then a kitten, rescued. Told that such information was confidential, he inquired whether they would reach out to the car’s owner to give that person his phone number. They, of course, would not.

But while agency after agency declined his call to join the good fight, Will returned to the car to find a neighborhood that had enlisted itself, thanks to a post on NextDoor extolling that kitten’s plight made by a neighbor who had watched the saga unfold.

While the car’s owner had yet to come forward, it didn't matter because half a dozen 20-something men and two women, finding the vehicle lifted upon a jack and plastered with Post-it notes, took these necessary intrusions as an invitation to take matters into their own hands.

Using a wire hangar, they popped open the door and opened the hood. Removing various parts and wires, they found the tiny kitten hiding in the engine block. But before they could grab her, she bolted out of view and was gone. They returned everything to its rightful position and softly closed the hood, but did not lock it, then dispersed, satisfied that they had averted disaster.

When, a short time later, Will returned to the car to check in and once again heard the kitten crying, he opened the unlocked hood and saw the kitten, cowering in a little alcove in the engine, surrounded by wires. Without a moment’s hesitation, Will grabbed the kitten and wrapped her in his shirt.

I came to pick them up, and while I held the little scamp, Will locked the car, closed the hood, set the car down by taking it off the jack, removed all the notes, and threw away the cans of cat food encircling the vehicle. Any trace of the weekend’s adventure was erased.

Mission: Accomplished.

After a brief respite in my home, the kitten is now living with my daughter. She is adorable, feisty, clean, well-fed, and thanks to countless kisses, tame, even though every time she is set down, she runs off to explore, subsequently hiding in the most inaccessible nooks and crannies possible. It is little wonder she ended up in such a pickle. Now that our daughter has made her a permanent part of our family, she will undoubtedly bring us much love, joy, and laughter in the years to come.

For me, she will also serve as a living reminder — and case study — of the vast disconnect between what Americans want and expect from Animal Services, and what they too often receive: dereliction of duty at best and, at worst, deadly malfeasance. The same is true of the three other public agencies given an opportunity to help, but who failed to do so, each and every one of them in turn.

As much as that sad truth weighs on me, what keeps it from destroying my optimism and hope for the future is the response of the people they are supposed to serve — people who rise up in their stead to help, including a total of 14 men and women, led by my son, who simply refused to give up, and the eight who broke into a car because that is what it the situation called for, regardless of whether it was their “job description” to do so. Should our public agencies ever begin to reflect, rather than hinder, the best of humanity these people embodied, what a beautiful world it would be.