Cleopatra

I stumbled across her while traipsing through the prison yards searching for unusual vegetation and wildlife one chilly morning. Barely moving, she had short, white fur stretched over an angular body. With the mien of the malnourished, she whimpered, startling the sparrows. Unafraid of this small carnivore, the tiny avians fluttered around her and perched next to her. Too lethargic to even swat the little birds with her paw — in the throes of death by starvation — the birds understood, but I did not. 

I was drawn to her large, sapient blue eyes. But my shame and doubt stuck to me like spittle. Compelled to take action, I ignored as usual the stern prison-issued warnings about wildlife. I scooped her up with one hand, cradling her head to my heart beneath an oversized jacket. Glancing over my shoulders, clasping my newfound treasure, I made my way secretly back to my cell. I stashed the feline prize within the warm folds of my tattered thermal shirt, placing her weightless body — still alive — in a cardboard box concealed under my bunk. The cat did not appear feral; she had contact with humans before. 

Digging around in my gray commissary box (courtesy of the Iraq war) I shoved the plastic-wrapped tortillas this way and that, while the bag of dried beans with garlic and chiles leaked the bean dust into my open bowl of oatmeal from breakfast. I discovered the cache of recently acquired turkey meat crumbles wedged between two boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese. Hmm … I wondered if these morsels of meat would interest her feline palate? Humbling myself, I settled for a box of tasteless, starchy noodles swimming in whey sauce and (sigh) gave the cat the turkey crumbles. 

Hoping to stimulate her appetite, I placed a small bowl of turkey crumbles and a smaller container of 1% skim milk, still fresh and leftover from breakfast, alongside her box. After a few minutes and some rumblings within the box, a pink nose emerges from the top. A cautious cat creeps toward the food bowls. 

Nuzzling the meaty morsels, she was a dainty eater and lapped at the milk without a dribble. I was pleased that she wasn’t like the French-speaking white cat in the cat food commercial, showing her displeasure, uttering, “Non!” sweeping aside gourmet delicacies with the swish of a single paw.

Tap … tap … tap. My back was to the window of the cell door when I heard a noise. The grinning face stuck to the window was my south-of-the-border neighbor calling out, “Chee-cah!” I smiled back and she asked, “Quienes el gato?” I replied that “el gato” is actually “la gata.” 

“Do you have any newspapers to make a litter box?” I inquired. She nodded in the affirmative, obligating me to follow her to her cell, where she dumped a week’s worth of Sunday comics and sports pages into my eager arms. I chortled with delight knowing that I was about to deprive the pod bullies of their weekend leisure reading. My friend and I created, together, a rustic litter box, stuffed with dirt and dried grass. We reappropriated a former paper box, aged to carry reams of typing paper, and turned it into a kitty condo with insulated walls, ceiling, and floor — hoping that the education department wouldn’t miss the large stapler, at least 100 staples, and a dozen clear trash bags. Even the lid was snug-fitting and insulated. 

I punched out a hole large enough for the cat to pop her head out and sniff around. Donated T-shirts and my tattered thermal made up the interior furnishings. I believed the cat would recover from her distressed life on the streets. But the breezy cool nights morphed into winter. 

One night, unknown to me, the cat crawled out of her condo and scrambled up the blanket to the top of the bunk, nestling in the crook of the back of my knees. This pale apparition, curled into a fetal position on top of the charcoal gray blanket, surprised the heavy set female officer as she peered into the darkened cell with her illuminating flashlight. Shocked by the feline form, the officer shrieked a bloody cry for me to toss the cat out into the yard. She awakened me and the cat with fright. I failed to soften her hardened heart with either tears or cajoling. The caesura break in her crying cadence allowed me to flatter her with false promises. This game, however, backfired. Reluctantly I was forced to release “la gata,” with her persistent sneezing, into the rain, hail, and cold wind. Worried about her fate, I couldn’t sleep. 

The next morning bestowed upon me renewed faith and energy, as I bounced out of bed at 6 a.m. I searched for her as the pinkish-orange light of the horizon ignited the indigo sky. I found her crumpled white body — still alive — partially hidden in the soda machine, which doubles as an avian shelter in the coldest months, due to the warmth of the meter. I coaxed her back through the gate into my arms. I tucked her into my jacket and returned once more to my cell. Back home, I fed her a breakfast of crumbles and cheese with a little milk. Afterward, she burrowed like a mole deep into the pile of donated T-shirts and my thermal. Covering her condo with a blanket, allowing her to sleep unmolested, and despite the exposure to the elements, I believed she would survive.

The officers, like frenzied dogs, would soon snatch a scent of the cat and discover her hidey-hole. They would attempt to dispose of her as they had earlier of five newborn kittens when their mother went out hunting. An officer grabbed the scruff behind the necks of five mewling kittens and callously (is there any other way?), routed them from their hidden nest, and tossed the hapless creatures into the cold and in full view of the owls that prowled the prison yards. The inmates found the kitten remains over the next day. But I was determined to deprive the ravenous owls of their next feline feast. 

Everyone helped out with the daily despicable chore of changing the litter box. For two days, I visited with the cat and her two-legged friends. I existed in a state of cat bliss, while feeding and caring for the cat. I cleaned her gluey eyes and dirty fur, with the distraction of string. 

Several days later, concluding that the respiratory infection, sneezing, and bad breath would not clear on its own, we decided the cat needed to see a vet immediately. But how could we quietly move her out of a Level III medium-security prison, then transport her by vehicle for an immediate vet visit, pay for her antibiotic treatments, with no money, and find her a forever home? We were perplexed but not discouraged. Maybe with the blessings of the Egyptian cat goddess Bast, and a little luck on our side, we might just find a way.

These halcyon days were not meant to last with the changing of posts for some of the feline-friendly officers. One day a dog came into the next pod over, sniffing and snorting through the cells, so I broke my reverie and playtime with “la gata,” pushing her back into her kitty condo, secured the lid, and pushed it into the corner of the shower — slashing the shower curtain closed. Flipping on the fan in my cell, hoping to circulate the cat-infused air, we were ordered by the cops to step out of our cells until the drug dog finished with the searches. 

Finding neither drugs nor hooch and having no interest in the showers, the dog waved his tail “goodbye,” following his handler as they left the premises. Saved by more than a cat’s whisker — I rightly concluded it was only a matter of time before they nabbed the cat. 

Once, a friendly male officer who liked cats and posed no immediate danger volunteered to take “la gata” for help at the “no-kill cat sanctuary” a mere mile down the road. We finally agreed. At lunchtime, he reported back to us that he dropped the cat off at the sanctuary with no incident. However, she must have been more miserable at the sanctuary than at the prison, because rumors surfaced that the cat had been seen at the outside perimeter fences looking for a way into the prison yards. She must have crawled over three days, dodging not only traffic but owls, coyotes, and raptors, including turkey vultures, and the usual cat haters who deliberately would have harmed her if she had been seen. Once she crossed back into my territory, we collared her and returned her to the kitty condo for recovery. How she made it back to us — bypassing both predators and traffic, in the cold with a respiratory infection — was a miracle and a display of her inner strength and perseverance of the feline species. 

My friends left for work in the education department the next day with the cat in the box. These schemers stacked garbage bags and schoolwork on the top of the box, disguising the real purpose of this mission. The question would be if they could make it past the slouching guard leaning on the fence at the gate, chewing on long, green grass or would he get nosy and decide to do his job by peeking inside? Would a ruse like this avoid detection or draw interest? Luckily, the guard was too lazy to ask any questions or poke his nose at somebody else’s business, so he waved them through the gate. 

At the threshold of education, my friends skittered past the tall troll guarding the library and made it to the lonely corridor with one lit office at the other end. A kindred spirit was alone, tapping out a report on his keyboard. Click … click … click. Our program director gazed up and warmly greeted his only visitors. They set the box down on his desk. Reaching into the box, my Puerto Rican friend gently picked up “la gata,” placing her in the welcoming arms of the director. Then something magical happened. As if an enchantment had been cast over the form and mind of the director, his eyes lit up as bright as the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza at the sight of the sickly, ghostly feline.

When the director’s coffee-colored eyes locked with the cat’s wise, blue eyes, he fell in love for the second time in his life. A love so powerful that only another cat-lover or cat goddess could understand. He placed her back in the box, secured the lid, and escorted the cat out of the building, and then, with a wink and a nod to the older security officer, he got past the front gate. He placed the box on the passenger floorboard, cruised past “checkpoint Charlie” with his truck, then hauled out the release gate and parking lot, leaving the screeching of tire tread and smoke behind his vehicle as he made a dash for freedom with “state property,” now stolen from the prison on the floorboard of the passenger side of the truck. Without official authorization from the warden, this escapade qualified as a criminal act. 

The warden of course would never release state property — the sick — even if it meant saving the cat’s life. The warden — cruel, greedy, and petty — would seek revenge against the director; it was inevitable. The director took a big risk that afternoon. He was my hero that day.

He took the stray-in-tow to his first love, his childless university professor wife, who also fell in like or love with “la gata.” The thin, angular-faced white cat was adored by this couple. The same cannot be said for their alpha male cat “Bennie,” however. 

“Cleopatra,” as she was now called, suffered from a severe lung infection and chronic malnutrition — which required the removal of 11 of her hollow teeth. After antibiotics, vitamin supplements, breathing treatments, and a diet rich in Omega 3 fish oil and protein, Cleopatra blossomed. The photos of Cleopatra, considered contraband by prison authorities, revealed a lush, long-haired cat — brown with gold patterns hugging her body and her bushy tail. Gone was the angular white body and bony face. The large, honey-colored eyes were rimmed in green and filled with light. “La gata,” our little girl, was all curves. I couldn’t be happier when I saw those photos. 

The warden, however, was not so happy with the director and terminated his contract. On his last day, I pointed to a computer printout of this information taped to the wall in education. “No good deed goes unpunished,” I said. 

We chuckled and he shared this story with me. He expressed his vexation at having to work in a hostile environment with his coworkers at the prison. Staff disliked him but the inmates respected him. And then he found Cleopatra (or she found him), claiming she changed his life, giving him purpose by saving the last six or seven of her lives. Maybe he renewed her faith in the kindness of human strangers. 

Epilogue: Cleopatra wasn’t the only one to suffer the debilitating effects of malnutrition. After 20 years of malnutrition due to prison mismanagement, my prematurely gray hair has been growing back dark brown, thick and shiny. My new diet, fish oil and prenatal vitamins, like Cleopatra’s, has restored our dark natural colors to our hair and fur  — thanks to the kindness of doctors and vets