Rescuing cats is a dirty job

It's a wonder no one has called the cops on Cindy Liggett, the way she creeps around abandoned buildings, apartment complexes and mobile home parks at night.

Even in broad daylight, her behavior can look suspicious. Why would anyone crawl beneath a decrepit trailer unless that person was a desperate plumber or up to no good? But good it is. So in spite of leaky pipes, drippy insulation and other gunk she'd rather not think about, in she goes. On her hands and knees if she's lucky, on her belly if she's not.

The things she's willing to do to save a cat. Get herself clawed and bitten. Stay up all night trapping. Have no life.

This cat rescue business can be about as glamorous as vacationing at a landfill. But once she gets these cats caught, cleaned, healthy, fixed and settled, the reasons she does it are there to greet her as she walks in her door: Domino, Medusa, Mama Pearl and all the rest.

Austin and Aubrey are exceptionally lucky. Those two she pulled from beneath what was left of a trailer after a meth lab blew up.

So, Liggett has a few cats - 30 of them, more or less. More, actually. She recently acquired three kittens when a cat she took in turned out to be pregnant. Then came five more found motherless in a shed. Yet another kitten came in just the other day, found bawling her head off, which was stuck tight inside a pop can.

In all the years she has been taking in, fixing up and adopting out cats, Liggett figures, 1,000 have passed through her life.

Liggett isn't a hoarder, the kind who get sideways with neighbors and the law because they can't say no and things get entirely out of hand. She can say no, and she does it often.

Liggett's operation is official, licensed by the city Animal Care and Control Center. So she gets inspected to make sure her cats are healthy and happy and that her house isn't a giant litter box. She does this through the nonprofit Kitty and K-9 Connection until permanent homes can be found.

"Spay/neuter, spay/neuter, spay/neuter" is their mantra. "Microchip, microchip, microchip."

Most of Liggett's cats come from animal control. The volunteers or staff get attached to this one or that, its time is running out and they can't stand to see it put down. So they get on the phone and activate the rescue network to see if anyone out there can help save this cat.

"The 11th-hour Hail Mary calls. We saved one guy by 43 minutes. It puts a fine point on it when you realize you just pulled an animal out that had 43 minutes to live."

"We have a harder time getting cats rescued than dogs," said Maria Martin, spokeswoman for the animal shelter. "Unfortunately, many people view cats as second-class pets."

One day last month, Liggett came home after a particularly long day, opened her door and saw little wet footprints all over the place. The house was flooded.

"Those little heathens in the bathroom had turned on the hot water faucet," she said. "Then they proceeded to throw a roll of toilet paper in the sink - and a roll of paper towels."

She found the culprits sitting in the bathtub, which was high and dry, with one of those mistakes-were-made looks on their faces.

"So, you want to play in water, huh?" she said as thoughts of giving the little brats each a swirly passed through her head.

It was a huge mess. She had to call friends to help mop up and had fans running for a week.

There are times she wonders if it's all worth it, but this wasn't one of them. Those doubts come because too many people still don't spay and neuter. And too many people keep dumping their cats on the streets, where terrible things happen to them.

She wonders if all the advocacy work she's done through the years has made any difference. Because the calls keep coming and coming.

And that's way harder to bear than a flooded house.

Reference: www.knoxnews.com

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