The Society welcomes all animals, although there must surely be times when this principle is sorely tried. One of the express companies had asked the Society to take charge of an abandoned shipment of live cargo, and the ASPCA agent who answered the call found a number of burlap sacks waiting for him. "What's in them?" he asked. "Snakes," answered the express man laconically. "What kind?"
"Mister," said the express man, "do you think I'm fool enough to open those bags and find out?" In the Manhattan shelter, the Society workers discovered the bags to contain several dozen large snakes. The reptiles were brownish-yellowish, hooded, with a curious spectacle shaped insignia. "Mon!" cried Melvin. "Those beasties are cobras!" To anyone else, even the most confirmed animal lover, a brigade of venomous serpents might have been a shade less than welcome. Not so to the Society. Melvin and his men rounded up all the tanks and aquariums they could find, decanted the cobras into them, put weighted screening on top and locked the guests in an empty room. After the cobras had been comfortably bedded down, to their own satisfaction and to the great relief of their custodians in the shelter, Melvin called the zoo. Next day, the zoo truck gratefully collected this unexpected gift. Later, Melvin got to worrying. There had been a number of dead cobras, sorted out and disposed of; no one had counted exactly how many live ones remained. The ASPCA men had checked the room for stragglers, but Melvin still felt uneasy. To ease his own nerves more than anything else, he went down the hall to the cobras' former quarters and looked in. Standing there a few moments, he saw nothing. As he turned to go, a sleepy-looking cobra stretched out its length and peered at him from the corner.
An empty fish tank still stood in the room. Melvin turned the aquarium on its side and tiptoed out, clicking the door behind him. He returned with a broom in his hand and half a dozen men at his back. Very cautiously he bent down and gently nudged the cobra into the tank. One of his helpers ran forward, righted the aquarium and slapped a screen over it. "Laddie," said Melvin, "gae call the zoo and ask: have they room for animals?" The Society has learned not only to take snakes in its stride, but to live with them on the most cheerful of terms. The number of resident serpents varies. One day, the staff may be practically up to their ankles in reptiles; the next, the shelter may seem empty without them. Sometimes, however, one snake can make up a crowd. Such was the case with a gigantic boa constrictor, a fugitive from a lady snake charmer in Coney Island. The boa had disappeared in midsummer and the police, at the time, had cordoned off the entire area. The snake hunt yielded no results-except some for speculation as to exactly how such a big reptile could lose himself so thoroughly. A boa constrictor in busy Coney Island should not present the same problem as a needle in a haystack. This one did. The boa showed no sign of its whereabouts until the following November, when two workmen started repairing an old garage. One of them, perched on a stepladder to install a light bulb, found something more electrifying. The front part of the boa coiled comfortably about the light fixture; the rest of it seemed to stretch all around the garage roof. ASPCA agents, working with the police emergency squad, disentangled the boa from the rafters and put it in the biggest thing they could find: a long glass showcase.
A patrol wagon lugged the installation to the Manhattan shelter, where it stayed for the next ten days. The big showcase took up so much room that visitors, without looking at the contents, might have wondered whether the Society was now importing Egyptian obelisks or opening a department store. The snake, which preferred its home in the garage, also had the habit of lunging irritably at passers-by. Some people felt uneasily that if the powerful boa kept on with this, it might wear a hole through the glass. Melvin finally located the snake charmer and conveyed the good news. She could have the snake any time she wanted. "Forget it," said the snake charmer. "You can have him. I'm working with a python now." As he reached for the phone to call the zoo, Melvin breathed a silent prayer that this time the snake charmer could manage to keep her act together. The Society has provided room and board for most of the common and uncommon species of reptiles in the United States. It has also cared for snakes found freeloading in banana shipments from South America. The Society people are pretty good at identifying their charges-but try to avoid overconfidence. Melvin in particular remembers one visitor, a variety he had never seen before. Ordinarily, he would have handled it with his usual nonchalance; this time, out of curiosity, he checked with the late Dr. Raymond L. Ditmars, the famous herpetologist, at the zoo. "Aye, he's a handsome one," said Melvin. "A nice red with a bit of yellow-"
"Red and yellow, you say?" asked Dr. Ditmars. "Would he have black bands, too?"
"He does indeed," answered Melvin. "Do me a favor," Dr. Ditmars said. "If he bites you, be sure to let us know." Melvin's colorful guest was a coral snake, one of the most deadly in the world. The Society now makes a practice of checking all its reptile visitors with the zoo. Snakes, for the most part, quietly mind their own business, content to stay in their tanks without fuss.
From a handling viewpoint, some of the birds of prey-the hawks, falcons and eagles-give the Society a tougher time. A woman reported an injured vulture in her back yard, the Society captured the bird, treated it and put it in a cage to recover. The vulture enjoyed a rapid convalescence and developed an eager appetite. Melvin himself often took charge of feeding the bird, although he never dared go near the vulture without first donning a pair of heavy gloves. The vulture did not have the world's sweetest disposition, and the possibility of a few ASPCA fingers in its diet appeared not to concern it. For all his skill in handling animals, Melvin always approached the bird with extreme caution. Meantime, the vulture continued to eat the Society practically out of house and home-while the Society wistfully hoped that someone would show up to claim it. Within a week, someone did. A towheaded boy of no more than ten stepped up to Melvin's desk one afternoon. "Somebody says you people found a big bird," he said. "I think he's mine. Can I go see?"
"Laddie," Melvin told him, "the only bird we have here now is a great strappin' vulture, squawking like a door hinge and eatin' like a horse." The boy nodded. "That sounds like him. Thanks for looking after him. I'll take him home now."
"Och, laddie, laddie!" Melvin cried. "The beastie will take your hand off. That's not a pet for a bairn!" The boy insisted. Melvin finally led him back to the vulture's cage. "I knew it was mine!" the boy shouted joyfully. The vulture looked up. The boy walked over to the cage. Like a cat waiting to have its ears rubbed, the vulture cocked his head against the mesh. The boy tickled the bird's neck. Had it been possible, the vulture would have purred. Melvin watched in amazement. "Laddie," he asked, "where did ye ever learn to handle a bird like that?"
"I don't know," the boy said. "I guess I'm just used to them. I got another one at home."
The size of a pet-owner's bank account does not concern the Society. Neither do the pet-owner's morals. Some years ago, in the heyday of Manhattan's after-hours amusements, the city police were constantly rounding up contingents of ladies of the evening. The Society always looked after their pets until the girls, eventually emerging from the lockup, came around and took them home again. Since most of the girls immediately launched into their old profession, and the police force kept hauling them in with the same persistence, a good many of the dogs, cats, canaries and fish repeatedly turned up in the Medical Stray Ward. The Society people came to know these animals well, and it was not unlike a happy homecoming when they appeared. One day, in addition to all the regulars, a large parrot arrived-temporarily homeless as the result of a raid on the apartment of a certain Miss Bubbles La Mar. Miss La Mar had received a fairly short sentence and the Society prepared to house the parrot until its owner's release. Later, however, Miss La Mar sent word to the Society that she was getting out on good behavior and going back to Ohio. The Society was welcome to the parrot. "We sure won't have any trouble finding a home for that bird," one of Melvin's assistants remarked. "He's a beauty." Melvin nodded. "Aye," he said, "they’ll be many wantin' to adopt
him. But mind! Don't let him go to any home where they have wee ones."
"No children?" asked the puzzled assistant. "But he'd make a wonderful pet for a kid...." Melvin shook his head. "Adults only."
"Why? Does he bite?"
"No," Melvin said. "He talks. So if the bairns are after leamin' the facts of life, they'd best be askin' their parents-not parrot!"
15 - 23,000 Cinderellas
"What we want is a puppy," the man said, "an ordinary puppy. But he's got to be ordinary in a special way." The visitor to the Manhattan Shelter's Adoption Ward spoke on behalf of a young Italian couple standing quietly and patiently near the door. The woman twisted and re-twisted her handkerchief. The man occasionally raised his head and bent forward, trying to guess the course of the conversation. Thus the ASPCA Adoption Service began an extraordinary dog-hunt for a dog that wasn't ordinary at all. To a small boy named Nunzio D’Ambrosio, it was the most special animal in the entire universe. It could never really be found because it was dead. The D'Ambrosios had brought their five-year-old son and his pet to the United States. Sailing into New York harbor, Nunzio thrilled to the Statue of Liberty and the skyscrapers. He knew exactly where the Empire State Building stood and how it looked against the clouds. His parents told him all about it, and about the shape of the skyline, the other ships in port, the colors of the automobiles. They had to. Nunzio was blind. The D'Ambrosios had made the trip for one purpose: to find out from a prominent eye surgeon whether Nunzio would ever see again. After weeks of examinations, they received their answer.
The only pictures Nunzio would ever have-of his parents, his puppy, the Statue of Liberty, a Manhattan taxicab or the fountains of Rome-would have to reach him through his fingertips, through sound, scent, but never sight. Nunzio's parents sadly prepared for the return voyage. But, during one period when Nunzio was in the hospital, the puppy sickened and died. Nunzio knew nothing of this; nor did he know he was going to be blind for the rest of his life. He would find out about his eyes soon enough. No one could spare him that. The loss o. f the puppy was something else. Doctors couldn't restore Nunzio's sight. Now his parents only wanted to know: could the Society restore one small puppy? It's easy to find an ordinary dog. But not one exactly like another. Mixed breeds (using the polite term) don't come in carbon copies. Nunzio's puppy had had a special slope to his rear end, his tail had curved in its own utterly impossible way. There had been a certain flop to his ears, a certain feel to his coat. The Society had plenty of puppies like that. Almost. Not quite. A call went to all ASPCA shelters for the kind of dog no one would look at twice-unless you happened to be completely in love with him. Society workers had a detailed description of the most-wanted puppy in New York. Had the D'Ambrosios wanted a trained seal or a zebra, the search would have been simpler. The Society was still searching on the eve of the D'Ambrosios' scheduled return. Mrs. D’Ambrosio had even taken Nunzio to the ship, to get him settled and comfortable before the voyage. One of the shelters telephoned. Of the hundreds of puppies that ASPCA workers had examined, this was the perfect replacement. Maybe. There is an undefinable difference between the specifications of a puppy and the puppy himself.
Mr. D'Ambrosio dropped everything and went to see the little dog. In size, shape, weight even in the texture of the coat, the puppy was identical to Nunzio's pet. Only a couple of markings varied slightly. Nunzio, unfortunately would never see that.
On the deck of the ship, the little dog ran to the arms of master he had not seen until that moment For Nunzio, had never seen the dog and never would, the puppy had always been there.
Everyone admits this was technically, a deception. As a deception, it was also one of the gentlest swindles ever perpetrated. The genuine thing was love; which makes up for anything else. Who, after all, worries about technicalities? Not small boys. Certainly not small puppies.
Nunzio D'Ambrosio's be loved impostor was one of some 23,000 dogs, cats and or animals who, each year win the biggest prize of their lives; a home. Ryan spends his time rescuing animals; the Society's Adoption Service takes it from there.
The ASPCA adoption wards are a combination show window for people looking for a pet, and a wistful waiting room for dogs and cats who want nothing more than to be wanted. The number of adoptions amounts to something little 10 percent of the animals handled through ASPCA shelters. This low figure is not as low as it seem. Most of the animals entering the shelter are incurably sick or hurt beyond recovery; the Society painlessly puts them to sleep. The majority, in fact are put to sleep at the owner's request. If it has an choice at all, thee Society always offers an unwanted animals for adoption.
As June Elliot says, "We'd rather find em home than a heaven."
For a homeless animal, the two words are synonymous.
Prospective owners of puppies, kittens, any birds, parrots or other animals may adopt pets from the Society shelters in New York City and beyond. This shelter system is the framework for all ASPCA operations.
In addition to being a reception and adoption center for animals in Manhattan, the four-floor shelter at 92nd and York includes the new hospital and administrative offices. The 30-year-old Brooklyn shelter handles more animals than any other in the country-about 49,000 per year. With this kind of volume, Brooklyn has had its share of boa constrictors, lions and ocelots. One night, a Brooklyn agent answered a call about a bear on the loose. For some reason, he got the impression it was a small honey bear, or kinkajou which is not a bear at all. Instead, he found a full-grown grizzly, about as far from a honey bear as anything could be. He captured it, with the help of a police squad. The owner, an absent-minded trainer who had somehow lost track of the animal, finally turned up to claim it. Newest ASPCA shelter is in the Bronx, a $350,000 facility built in 1956. Five times bigger than the shelter it replaced, its glass-fronted adoption kennels make sparkling showcases for available animals. Piped-in music soothes the four-legged guests and probably does quite a bit for the busy humans, too. Each outdoor dog-run contains the ultimate detail: a bright red fireplug. In Queens, the adoption ward is a century-old farmhouse. Three other big, rambling buildings house kennels, license office and garage. The ivy-draped Richmond shelter dates from 1935 and serves the Staten Island area. Outside New York City, the Society runs two shelters in Nassau County-Glen Cove and Long Beach-and in the wooded hills of Westchester County, a shelter at Elmsford. Here, the Society landscaped the site to match the rural setting and added a year-round aviary. All Society shelters accept animals any time, day or night, at no charge.
On request, one of the Society's 45 ambulances will make house calls to pick up unwanted animals. (Since 1954, the Society has been obliged to make a slight charge for this service except when a licensed New York City dog is involved.) If there's any hope of finding a new home for the pet, the Society keeps the animal available as long as possible. Knowing the ways of humans as well as the ways of animals, the Society doesn't offer a pet for adoption as soon as the owner brings it in. The ASPCA holds the animal 24 hours, just in case the owner changes his mind. One man adopted a dog from a shelter, brought it back the following day, reclaimed it the next, returned it once again, then finally took it home for keeps. The Society gives the VIP (Very Important Pet) treatment to animals going out on adoption. Nobody can guarantee an animal's health any more than tomorrow's weather; but the Society takes every precaution. It offers a free examination for each adopted pet, plus any necessary shot against communicable disease. Adopted animals altered or spayed in the Society's hospital have their own medicare plan: the owner pays only the surgical charge; the Society assumes all hospitalization, examination, entrance, drug, inoculation and other fees. Along with the free shots and examination, the Society veterinarians give the new owner some pointers on basic animal care. For most owners, the pet they're adopting is the first they've ever had and the veterinarians stress the importance of details such as regular ear-cleaning, especially with floppy-eared dogs; dental examination; diet; exercise. This short indo
ctrination course isn't meant to turn the owner into a do-it-yourself veterinarian, but it does make him aware that animals, like humans, need continuing attention. In addition, the owner gets a free pamphlet on the care of his new pet.
Every adoption is a Cinderella story. A homeless animal's needs are simpler than glass slippers and pumpkin coaches, but some owners encounter more difficulties than the Prince, whose problem involved only a shoe size. Like the D’Ambrosio family, humans often have complicated requirements. In Illinois, a bedridden invalid was grief-stricken over the loss of his close companion, a black-and-white cat named Rocky. The invalid, a man named Alfred Towner, desperately wanted another cat but would only accept one that looked exactly like Rocky. Mrs. Towner advertised for a cat of Rocky's description. Readers responded with offers of Persians, Siamese, ginger colored cats and just about everything except what Mr. Towner insisted on: a black cat with a white belly, white feet and whiskers, a white spot under the chin, and a completely black face. Mrs. Towner then sent a letter to the president of a cat food company in California. The executive could locate no cats like Rocky on the West Coast. Reluctantly admitting that New York might have a more varied cat population than California, he passed Mrs. Towner's letter on to a Manhattan lady, Dorothy Smith, in charge of the company's Bronze Award to outstanding cats. Mrs. Smith did the logical thing. She called the Society. Within less than a day, Rocky's duplicate arrived at the shelter. A few hours later, a plane from La Guardia Field sped the black-and-white to her new home in Illinois. The plane undoubtedly went faster than Cinderella's coach. And it did not turn into a pumpkin. One man who has probably seen as many Cinderella stories as anyone is Manhattan Chief Shelter Clerk Louis C. Baer. Gray-haired, wearing a pair of antique steel-rimmed spectacles, Baer looks as if he'd adopt all the animals in the shelter if he could only figure out where to keep them. When he does, the Society's adoption rate will show a marked increase.