Shock and Paw

Everything was going well until the kitty litter question.

We had been in the Petco for hours. Many hours. Enough hours that people began assuming my girlfriend and I were volunteers at KittyKind, the no-kill cat shelter that sets up camp in the massive pet store found on the northwest corner of New York City's Union Square. But we weren't volunteers -- we were just another decent, underemployed American couple trying to create a life together in a cramped apartment in the Lower East Side. And while we generally enjoyed that life, we knew it wouldn't be complete without the pitter-pat of little feet in our hall and on our heads in the middle of the night, fur all over our chic black wardrobe, and a litter box stashed in the shower.

I've been a cat owner for almost three decades. But as I walked into the Petco I realized that I've never actually gone shopping for one. My sister -- defying the no-pets clause my father put in our parents' marriage contract -- secured my family's first cat for a dollar at a school fair when she was in first grade. Pee Wee was a tough little dude until a mysterious fertilizer incident did him in. Next up: Daiquiri, a fancy indoor cat who arrived one happy afternoon, only to meet his demise in a freak flea bath accident shortly thereafter. A quiet period ended a few years later when I moved into an apartment in San Francisco where Woody was squatting. He was sweet and just a little crazy, so I kept him moving around with me for 12 years. I thought I had a pretty good handle on the cat world. Entering the matrix of KittyKind, it was apparent I did not. These people were different.

I quickly learned that it takes a special type of cat lover to volunteer at a no-kill shelter. They give up their time to hang out with cats that turn up sick, abused, unwanted or worse. A good day is when one of them traps a feral cat in a vacant parking lot and brings it in to be neutered. And at the end of the day, every cat needs to be shuttled off to the home where it's being boarded. Yes, boarded -- like little, furry exchange students.

These people are cat-obsessed, but then again so are we. In the months preceding the death of Woody -- one of the all-time great cats -- we found out to what lengths feline love would take us.

On Sept. 12, 2001, with the city reeling and acrid smoke hanging over our neighborhood, Woody got sick. Maybe it was all that gunk in the air in lower Manhattan, maybe he was entering month 11 of life nine, but all I know is that from 9/12/01 one previously perfect cat started throwing up like a freshman at a frat party. After numerous visits with our local, beloved vet, we decided that we needed to step things up a notch. Consulting New York magazine's much-mocked (until now) "Best NYC Vets" article, we located not just the best cat doctor, but the finest feline gastrointestinal expert in all of Manhattan. We had crossed over from garden-variety pet ownership into another realm: We had Jumped the Paw.

Dr. Evelyn Han was located in a sprawling animal hospital in the Upper East Side. The waiting room was a constant source of amusement, trauma and drama. Where else, after all, do you hear people trading stories about their cats' experience with dialysis? People would give us their phone numbers, begging us to keep them up to date on Woody's progress. The owner of the largest dog I have ever seen cheerfully explained to a terrified cat owner that the pooch was lunging at her equally terrified cat "because he loves cats -- we have two at home." Entire families sat nervously awaiting word on their Chihuahua. Here was a place where you could witness complete interspecies devotion. Turn on a digital video camera and you'd have a top-rated reality TV show, the waiting room for Emergency Vets on Discovery's Animal Planet.