Dadcat University: The Story of the Feral Cats at Umass-Amherst

By Marie Phillips

One night in August 1991 I noticed two tom cats rummaging in a dumpster at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst where I worked. That observation led to the discovery there were feral cats secretly living on campus in a community governed by the illustrious Dadcat. The Dadcat's wife, Ashes, who allowed me to join their private world, and I immersed myself in their culture - the Jane Goodall of feral cats - determined to find out if they could ever trust a human. Dadcat University is a true story about my incredible friends and the journey we embarked on in forming lifelong, trusting relationships that exceeded any of our expectations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463441159

Marie Phillips

Marie Phillips is the author of three novels, including the international bestseller Gods Behaving Badly, and is the co-writer of the acclaimed BBC Radio 4 series Warhorses of Letters. She has already had two midlife crises and there is still time for more.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

The Cast

Part I-Getting to Know You

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part II-Finding Our Way

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part III- The Road Home

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Postscript

For my great loves who lived life with vibrancy and inspiring courage: Mr. Key, Pumpkin, Ashes and the Dadcat, Rusty,

and my beloved Moustache

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Munson for inspiring me to write this book, and to Ashes and the Dadcat and their other children: Muffin, Tippie, Tyler, and Woodrow, who motivated me to keep going until it was finished. Thanks to my personal cat advisors Pumpkin, Willie Winkle, Emily, and Rusty. There wouldn’t have been a book without my dear Mr. Key who opened the door to the world of the feral cats.

Meg Caulmare, an amazing person with whom I shared cat care-taking responsibilities, was instrumental in filling gaps in my journals and recalling certain details and scenes. She deserves all the credit for getting the campus cats spayed. We shared many good times and emotionally wrenching ones as well. She is my great friend.

Dr. Mark Berens is a hero without whom we could never have achieved zero-population growth. He showed an unfailing commitment toward improving the lives of ferals. He handled the toughest ones without complaint or hesitation and with wonderful sensitivity. He understood how important each cat was to us and even adopted a campus kitten he named Wally.

Very special thanks to Dr. Beth Gatti for her outstanding and compassionate care of Kiddus, Willie Winkle, Pumpkin, Tippie, Ashes, Rusty, and Mr. Moustache.

I’d like to acknowledge all the superb, dedicated veterinarians who assisted us through the years: Dr. Mark Berens, Dr. Ted Diamond, Dr. Beth Gatti, Dr. Jim Hermann, Dr. Michael Katz, Dr. Deborah Lichtenberg, Dr. Alexandra Newman, Dr. Amy Plavin, Dr. Maureen Ricksgers, and Dr. David Thomson. Special thanks to Peggy and Jodie at Valley Veterinary Hospital for their kindness.

Thanks to Dr. Maggie Delano and UMass Physical Plant personnel for the countless ways they contributed to the cats’ welfare. Special thanks to members of the UMass Police Department: Jim Turati, Brian Narkewicz, Mark Jacques and Chip Thrasher, and to former chiefs, Barbara O’Connor and Jack Luippold for their assistance and support. Thanks to University staff Marty Blakey Smith (Facilities Planning), Mike Milewski (University Library Archives), and Ed and Gil in Custodial Services—my eyes and ears late at night on campus. Special thanks to my husband Stephen B. Oates who listened patiently and commented as I read freshly written chapters to him and for his unfailing belief in this book. Many thanks to Elizabeth Lloyd-Kimbrel and Gerry McCauley for reading and critiquing the manuscript.

Thanks to the wonderful people who adopted campus cats and gave them great homes: Annaliese Bischoff and Oliver Marston, Eric Esau, Jan Higgins, Pam Lieske, Janet Muzzy, Brooke Thomas, and others who shall remain anonymous.

Foreword

Nobody knows how many homeless cats are currently living in the United States although estimates range from 30 to 80 million. The numbers are staggering. For the most part these are not cherished pets who accidentally slipped out of the house and lost their way. They are refugees and orphans who wander the streets and woodlands looking for food and shelter, relying on survival skills to make it through each day and season of the year. Those who haven’t been spayed or neutered, which is presumably most, produce still more unwanted cats who learn to be fearful and suspicious of human contact. The cycle of homelessness and the supply of feral cats are quickly established.

Some people believe that the best, most humane way to deal with ferals is to capture and kill these cats. I do not share this view. First, it’s an ineffective means of population control. Second, it doesn’t address the real problem which is the failure of pet owners to spay and neuter their animals. Each year, thousands of cats become homeless or are born into this condition because of human negligence, irresponsibility, and cruelty. The massive number of cats deposited in animal shelters is tangible evidence of how our own species contributes to the pet overpopulation problem.

The third reason for disagreeing with the practice of killing ferals is rooted in my own personal association with these cats. I spent 16 years taking care of a community of 55 feral cats. It began as a chance meeting with two dumpster cats outside my office building at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and evolved into a long-term commitment that continued for the lifetime of the cats. These cats became my friends and two very special ferals among them eventually made their home with me. They allowed me to join their secret UMass world and understand who they are and how they live. I came to know them as highly intelligent, sensitive souls who can learn, at any age, to trust people through patience and kindness. They had names they recognized and distinct preferences and personalities just like any housecat. They challenged conventional wisdom, even espoused by some humane organizations, that says only very young feral kittens can be socialized. The cats taught me many things over the years, but above all I learned that being born and raised without human contact shouldn’t be a death sentence for cats. Anyone who devotes the time and earns the trust of a feral will have the most loyal, remarkable friend for life.

Dadcat University is a true story, based on journals I kept, about my dear friends, the feral cats at UMass. It’s the cats’ collective biography and a memoir of the experiences we shared. Across the country and around the world, people like me and my friend Meg were part of an unaffiliated, grassroots network of feral cat caretakers who made a difference in the lives of homeless cats, one at a time. I was often told the cats were lucky to have us taking care of them. But in the end, I feel that I’m the fortunate one for having known these cats at all.

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The Cast

Ashes

Bessie

Buddy J. Budford III

Bushkin

C.C.

Cokie

Gray & White Boys

Gussie

Hey Lady

Jakie

Janie

Kiddus

Larry

Miss O’Scootie Toots

Mr. Blacknose

Mr. Key

Mr. Moustache

Mr. Whitenose

Mommer

Muffin

Munson

Paisley

Peach

Pumpkin

Silky Alice

Smokey

Squirt

Sweetie

The Dadcat

The Savage

Thomas P.P. Bartlett

Tippie

T. Tommy Tailspins

Tyler

WeeGee

Woodrow

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Map

Part I-Getting to Know You

Chapter One

The Little Guy

The smallest feline is a masterpiece.

Leonardo da Vinci

He was just a little guy, all of five weeks old, sitting in a cardboard box full of dirty rags and dusty old papers. At the first sound of human voices invading the silence of their world, the cats scattered and hid behind barrels, boards and discarded art projects. All except him of course—he was too small to escape.

I was being led to the back room of Munson Annex through a maze of corridors that snaked through the ceramics department by John Taylor, an art technician who worked there. I’d gone in that morning intending to speak with John about the problems he and others had with the feral cats living in their building at the University. But my plans got derailed when he said, One of the kittens is really sick. Instinctively I knew he was referring to the little guy, my favorite one. I calmly told John I’d take a look, but I felt a creeping sense of panic as we walked past racks of pottery and headed in the direction of the cardboard box. My throat tightened when we entered the back room and I saw the little guy. His eyes were sealed shut and he was breathing with difficulty. He heard us coming toward him and thrust his head upward, twisting it back and forth, straining to see. Oh no, I said to myself, how long has he been like this?

I thought back to a few nights ago when I began searching for the newest litter of kittens born to the mother cat. This was about the time when she’d bring them out from her special hiding place. Momcat, as I called her then, always delivered kittens in a crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof. It’s the only spot where they’d be safely out of sight from the students and instructors coming and going from the kilns. When her kittens are four weeks old, she carries them down and deposits them in a cardboard box near the rear wall. The back room was nothing more than a dilapidated appendage of Munson Annex, constructed out of cinder blocks, pipes and wire mesh. It isn’t easy to get a look at the kittens even when peering in from outside. The thick weave of the rusted wire was difficult to see through and the wavy, fiberglass roof restricted the amount of light coming in. An aluminum door opened into the back room from outdoors but it was rarely left unlocked.

I remembered what good fortune I had on the first night I went searching for this new litter. Someone forgot to lock the back door. Knowing that efforts to help the cats were generally unwelcome there, I turned the handle of the rickety door slowly to avoid rattling the loose glass panels and drawing attention to my intrusion. Once inside, I tiptoed around three kilns until at last I could see them.

It was hard to tell in the dim light how many kittens there were. Two gray and white blurs jumped out of a box and disappeared behind shadows while two others remained in the box. When I stooped down for a better look, one kitten climbed over the side and slid to the floor. Instead of running off, she chose a safe spot to sit and observe me, halfway between her apparent home and an escape route. Except for a white v-shaped patch on her chest and neatly marked white paws, she was covered by a charcoal gray fuzz. We stared at each other in amazement; I’d never seen such a young kitten, and she’d never seen a human up close.

I turned my attention to the last kitten, the runt of the litter who was still debating whether to flee or surrender as he waddled from one corner of the box to the other. Occasionally he uttered silent meows, paused, then tipped over trying to look up at me. I carefully lifted him out and murmured, everything is going to be O.K., I’m going to get you out of here. To my surprise he didn’t squirm and actually seemed to like being held. Meanwhile, the gray kitten inched closer, eyeing me as if I were King Kong clutching my victim. Though frightened, she was more interested in studying me than running away, a promising sign for a third generation feral.

I had no sense of time passing as I sat with the kittens, but when I finally looked up I saw that dusk had turned to darkness. Students were walking to their dorms, laughing and talking loudly. I began to get a sense of what it must be like for these cats to live here. The outside world looked scary.

Suddenly I was aware I had to leave without being seen or heard, the same situation undoubtedly faced by the cats. I thought of taking the little guy with me but what would I do with him? My own cat, Mr. Key, was a former stray and extremely proprietary about all his things, including me, my husband, the yard, and everything in the house. Despite Mr. Key’s macho appearance, we knew him to be a very sensitive fellow. But bringing the little guy home would be too risky because Mr. Key was a feline leukemia (FeLV) cat. I had to hope tomorrow would bring the same good fortune and I’d be able to re-enter the building without difficulty.

For the next two evenings I was thankful no one had yet discovered the back door was unlocked. I brought in old tee shirts to make a better bed in the box for the kittens. After inspecting the articles, the little guy tottered into a comfortable sitting position, finding the cloth much cozier than a bunch of academic papers. Being so little, his head was still unsteady and bobbed slightly like one of those velvety toys people keep in the rear window of their cars.

He showed no sign of fear whatsoever and readily accepted my company for reasons I can’t explain. This enabled me to pick him up frequently and he responded by purring in my ear. As it got darker I wrestled with the decision of when to leave, knowing he didn’t really want me to go, only to relent and say, I’ll hold you one more time. Who could resist this face? One eye surrounded by gray fur, the other almost entirely rimmed in white, and in between a streak of white traveled to his forehead ending in what looked like two points of a star. The rest of his body was two-toned with gray on top and white underneath, and he had a teeny gray triangle for a tail.

He was totally captivating, which I pointed out to him countless times. There would be no self-esteem problem for this boy. He might have been the smallest of the litter but that didn’t stop him from demonstrating he was just as important as the rest. I suppose any number of names would describe how charming and cute he was, but I decided he should have a special name. I called him Munson, after the building he was born in. Later, the name would take on special significance—Munson Annex had been named for Willard A. Munson, the captain and fullback of the University of Massachusetts’ winning football team of 1904.

Where Munson was easy going and adjusted to whatever was happening around him, his gray sister was cautious and guarded. Each evening when I came in I found her and Munson curled together in the box. She was his pal and only slightly bigger than he was. Unsure about me but loyal to him, she climbed out of the box and sat nearby, neatly wrapping her tail across her front paws. She took copious mental notes about every move and sound I made, then checked with Munson for his reaction. I tried to take advantage of her interest by extending my hand so she could smell it and become more familiar with me. At one point I was able to pick her up and hold her briefly before she wiggled free and resumed her post near the box. I didn’t press her, knowing that for these kittens to trust me, I had to understand how far each one was willing to go at any given time.

Two other kittens watched from a safe distance, poking their little faces out from behind boards propped against a wall. At roughly five weeks of age they were already afraid of people. In three evenings I’d only caught glimpses of them but was confused when their markings appeared to change. Then I discovered there were three kittens hiding, not two, making a total of five in the litter. Momcat, who was not visible during my first visit, decided my continued presence warranted her supervision. Although she had the look of parental concern, I couldn’t help but think she seemed proud to be showing me her beautiful children. I brought plenty of food for her which she gratefully ate while I chatted with Munson and his sister.

Each night I grew more nervous about being in the back room, expecting someone to come down from a studio and find me in the darkness, whispering to kittens. The campus police would be notified. How could I explain this? Where would I begin to tell the story of the feral cats?

After four nights my luck ran out—the aluminum door was locked. I knew this opportunity had come with a time limit. Still, it was difficult to accept that my access to the kittens was reduced to standing outdoors, watching them through the wire mesh. Worst of all my progress in socializing them came to a halt. I couldn’t give up, at least not on Munson and his sister. I decided that a direct approach was the only choice I had and planned to talk with John Taylor.

For the next few nights I left Momcat’s food outside, knowing she came and went from the back room by jumping over a high wall on the north side. I pressed my face against the rusty mesh and could barely see the kittens way in the back. I wondered if Munson was able to get out of the box yet. If these kittens were going to stand any chance of getting a home it was going to be through continuous contact with humans. That was the crux of the dilemma. Professor Frick, the man who headed the ceramics department and dictated what happened in the building, didn’t want cat caretakers traipsing around. Even worse, he hated the cats. But food was the vehicle to gaining the cats’ trust, socializing them, and getting them out. A confrontation about the cats was looming.

I woke up one morning at 5 a.m. full of frustration. With black coffee in hand, I made a list of the things I needed to convey to John Taylor. Cooperation and patience were the key words. The idea of planning an exact time to talk to him made me nervous. I figured the best thing to do was wait until a moment of confidence hit, then I’d go over to the Annex. But as I headed toward my office in the UMass administration building that morning I detoured over to Munson Annex. It was pointless to postpone talking with John. Besides, I had to keep my eye on what was really important. If I didn’t speak up for the kittens who would? Getting yelled at would be nothing compared to what Professor Frick would do to them if they remained in the back of the building.

Like most problems that are thought about and anguished over for too long, the dreaded confrontation with John Taylor never materialized. He was amiable and willing to listen. But our discussion abruptly ended when he mentioned one of the kittens was sick. That’s when he ushered me to the back room, toward the little guy. John stood aside as I took Munson from his box with his gray sister looking on from a far wall. She was frightened and asking, where are you going with my brother? If I’d had my wits about me I would have taken her too. But at that moment all I could think about was rushing Munson to my veterinarian. I asked John if I could use a phone and we hurried to his office.

Munson sat on the desk while I hunted in my schedule book for the vet’s number. My hands trembled as I pressed the keys and looked at this pathetic kitten. I was relieved to hear the voice of Andy Lichtenberg, the vet’s husband. Andy, it’s Marie Phillips calling. I have a little kitten from UMass with me. I wonder if Dr. Lichtenberg could look at him. I don’t know what’s wrong but he isn’t breathing very well and his eyes are sealed shut. O.K., Andy said, bring him in, but I don’t think Debbie will be able to see him right away, we’re booked up. That was fine. I’d drop him off, go to work, then retrieve Munson later in the day.

John handed me a Samuel Adams beer box with colorful pictures of the colonial figure prominently displayed on the panels. Here, you can put him in this. I called my office to say I’d be late and carried Munson in the beer box out the main door of the Annex to parking Lot #71.

Once we were inside my car I opened the box to check on him. Munson was blind, separated from his family, and craning his neck to see what was happening to him. He broke my heart. I decided then that my intervention in his life meant I had a responsibility to stick by him no matter what. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other stroking him, we slowly drove away from the Annex.

On that Tuesday morning, October 19, 1993, the sun gradually rose in the sky warming the chilly autumn air. Fall foliage was at its peak with brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows filling the streets of Amherst. It was a typical weekday morning in a college town with delivery vehicles and buses rushing by, students walking and riding bicycles to class, and shopkeepers opening their doors. Dr. Lichtenberg’s Veterinary Hospital was a 15-minute drive from the University and within a mile of my home. It was a familiar route; Emily Dickinson’s house on the right, my dentist’s office on the left, followed by a stretch of farmland along Route 9.

I was only marginally aware of the colorful leaves and joining the stream of traffic. The world took on a surrealistic quality with everything moving in slow motion. I began to think back to a time when I was unaware there were homeless cats living at the University. My knowledge of stray cats had been limited to the often ghastly mailings from humane organizations. Who could imagine a place like Happy Valley with its five colleges—Amherst, Hampshire, Mount Holyoke, Smith, and the University of Massachusetts—had a problem with strays and ferals? After all, this was a fairly affluent community filled with educated, socially aware people. The fact is there are no socioeconomic or geographic boundaries for homeless cats; the problem is everywhere.

As Munson and I drove along, my thoughts began to drift, wandering through two previous years of escalating involvement with the campus cats. Part of me didn’t want to be tangled up with a problem I couldn’t fix, but another just couldn’t turn away. Munson was pushing me further into their world and I wasn’t sure how far I wanted to go. Somehow I needed to make sense of how I got into this situation in the first place.

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Chapter Two

Discovering the Cats

There’s a somebody I’m longing to see

I hope that she turns out to be

Someone who’ll watch over me.

George & Ira Gershwin

Someone to Watch Over Me

I first discovered the cats on the night of August 12, 1991, or maybe that’s when they discovered me. I’d just spent several hours in the University Library doing research for my master’s degree. I was tired, the perennial condition of anyone trying to go to school, hold a job, and maintain a home. After years of juggling priorities, and sacrificing summers to higher learning, the finish line was finally in sight. In three weeks I would receive my degree and was already giddy over the prospect of having free time and a normal life.

Although the campus was still relatively quiet in August, you could see a transition taking place. Summer session classes were winding down. The 23,000 students registered for the fall semester weren’t due to arrive until September, but many were already drifting in early to take care of administrative business, line up jobs, and get their apartments in order.

As I walked out of the library, I heard the UMass football team and Marching Band practicing in the distant athletic fields. Ahead of me the Color Guard had assembled in front of the Old Chapel with their banners. I maneuvered around the group and continued on, passing Memorial Hall, Bartlett Hall, Curry Hicks Cage, and Munson Hall. The sun was heading off toward the Berkshires, changing the sky into subdued pastel shades of pink and orange as it dipped lower in the west.

I was about to step off the curb into parking Lot #71, when I noticed two cats rummaging in a dumpster by the entrance to the Whitmore Administration Building. I’d been employed at the University for thirteen years, in this very building, and had never seen cats on campus before. Maybe they came from a bordering residential neighborhood to snoop and hunt. When I approached, they scrambled to the top of a grassy ridge that surrounds Whitmore like a fortress on a hill. Who are you? Where did you come from? I asked. The Ridge-Riders narrowed their eyes into slits to make me fear them and flashed a look that said, mind your own business.

They were a couple of gray and white toughies. The larger one was especially intimidating with his beat-up raggedy ears and deadpan expression. He was a bruiser with a wide face and square jaw. I called him Raggedy-Ear Tom and his sidekick, The Savage (French pronunciation: saw-vadge). Their wildness was obvious but I was determined to know their story. They were equally resolute about keeping it a secret.

The next day at work I mentioned the cats to a janitor. Those were probably a couple of the homeless cats who live around here. Lots of ’em are wild, he said. Students used to abandon cats at the dorms when they left school. He was surprised, even amused I didn’t know this was part of campus life, not only at our school, but at colleges across the country.

Thereafter, I looked for the cats every night when I left my office. They appeared at twilight when they would be less conspicuous. Most people, I observed, didn’t notice them anyway.

The cats knew exactly when the trash got emptied. Monday through Friday the janitor’s cart rolled across the concrete service area between 6:30 and 7 p.m., always followed by a loud clanging as the refuse container hit the rim of the dumpster. Lots of food scraps got tossed out from the Whitmore Coffee Shop, so the cats might find a leftover tuna sandwich, or a half-eaten hot dog or hamburger.

I worried about them combing through rubbish, stepping in hazardous debris like broken glass, and having no meals on weekends when the dumpsters were empty. There wasn’t any reason why I couldn’t feed the cats on a daily basis.

So began my routine of pushing a paper plate of cat food beneath the dumpster seven nights a week where the rain couldn’t touch the food. Inevitably an administrator would walk out and find me crawling on my hands and knees by the trash. Lose something Marie? they’d ask. Only my mind, I thought to myself. There were 5,000 employees on campus and I never heard of anyone else doing this in their spare time.

A new feral appeared who quickly learned my cat food delivery schedule and waited for me by a nearby tree. She was a sleek, jet-black cat with golden eyes, and about two years old. I called her Blackie. As I drove into the parking lot and pulled up alongside the dumpster, Blackie ran toward the car. I always greeted her by saying, it’s good to see you! and asking about her day. Small talk didn’t interest her; this was strictly a restaurant relationship. I produced the food and she consumed it. Blackie walked ahead of me toward a cluster of towering pines where she wanted to eat, chattering in cat language for me to hurry and put her plate down.

Two female janitors noticed our interactions. She’s been watching for you, they’d holler from the entrance to the administration building. Such a shame, they’d say, that cats have to live this way. It saddened me too, to think this was Blackie’s only meal of the day and how she had to live in the hurly-burly of a college campus and dodge speeding cars in the parking lot. I wondered if it was possible to socialize her and place her in a home. I wanted to tell her there was a better life somewhere else. I held my finger out for her to smell and she pressed her nose against it. It seemed this was as far as she’d go in establishing human contact.

Watching us from the highest point on the sloping grassy banking were the Ridge-Riders. They didn’t care to get chummy with me but were interested in what I was doing. I jokingly told them I was running a catfoodmobile. They gave me their best "do you think we care?" looks. They wanted a meal as much as Blackie did but weren’t about to make a move for the food until my car left the parking lot.

Over the next several months I became acquainted with an interesting subculture—the second shift employees who worked in Maintenance and Public Safety. They were attuned to the night rhythms and goings-on that escape the daytime staff and were aware of the campus cats. Don’t worry, many said, those cats know where to hide and how to keep warm in the winter. I assumed this meant the cats had no home base, that they simply roamed and stayed wherever it suited them.

I heard again and again those cats are smart! and detected a certain respect for their ability to survive. But seeing them regularly gave me a different perspective. It wasn’t that the cats looked bad, far from it. Blackie could easily have been mistaken for someone’s house pet. And except for Raggedy Ear Tom’s ears, you’d probably say the same about him and The Savage. What was lost in the discussion was that somewhere along the way, irresponsible people put these cats or their forebears in this situation.

In May 1992, two new, handsome, feral dinner guests took Blackie’s spot at the tree. They were almost identically patterned in black and white. I called them Mr. Whitenose and Mr. Blacknose, which described one of the ways to tell them apart. Mr. Whitenose was a tall, long fellow with large features and a polydactyl of the highest order, with extra toes climbing up his front legs. He actually had a pink nose but the striking contrast between the black fur around his eyes and the whiteness below, suggested