Steak Sauce

I don't take the L train very often, but when I was at Stuyvesant, it was my daily commute for the first three years. F train to 14th, L to 1st ave. As the L got closer to the school, more and more students and teachers packed on, especially at certain times of day, and so the L became an extension of the school experience. Sometimes just to amuse ourselves, Mike and I would take the G instead of the F and get the L at Lorimer so that we approached the school from the opposite direction. Our parents would not have approved of that - in those days, the eastern part of brooklyn was still ungentrified, either purely industrial or gang territory. Today I stayed on the L, reading my book, as we passed Williamsburg, where many of our fundraisers are held at various venues, through less familiar Greenpoint until we reached the Jefferson station. Emerging, I found myself in a neighborhood mid-gentrification. Old, graffitied warehouses with missing windows were coexisting with the bodegas and chinese restaurants and liquor stores emblematic of low income neighborhoods in NYC. But there were also lots of newer businesses, nightlife venues like The Onyx Room, and pricey eateries like Artichoke Pizza, and a bar, whose name, Dive Bar, attested to what it wasn't. The people on the street were a mix - an older Caribbean woman instructing a young man how to carry her full cart down the subway stairs, a couple speaking spanish but also young white people, the kind who move someplace for the lower rents but wind up pushing the prices up for everybody until the original residents are pushed out. The ACC is out past the restaurants and the bars, in a more industrial area, close enough to the water to have glimpses of the imposing Manhattan skyline. The facility itself is new, I remember the excitement among my rescue friends about the increased resources for free spay/neuter services for stray and feral cats. Even with the additional appointments, rescue people stay up until midnight, when the future slots open up, and grab whatever they can. Of course, they can't know if a cat will go in a trap in time for any given appointment, so the people who wind up with slots they don't need pass them on to other rescuers. The building itself is large, with a labyrinth of dog runs in the back and a parking lot in front and the whole thing is surrounded by a substantial fence. Walking in, I am reminded of a psych ward - there's the whole airlock effect where you go in one set of doors and then have to be buzzed through the next set. But that's where the resemblance ends because stepping in I am hit by the smell of kibble and a chorus of barks of all imaginable kinds. They have my applicaton, so they tell me to sit in the waiting room where my heart breaks thinking about all of the creatures in this building in desperate need of homes. I would take them all if I could. Trying not to think about it, I focus on the bustle around me. A man and a young boy show up with bags of stuff to donate, which gets added to a heaping pile. I figure they probably get a rush of donations at Christmas just like we do. A man is getting ready to leave with his joyful newly adopted terrier mix, and I watch the dog haul him to the doors and bound through the parking lot to his new life. I notice that there are Christmas decorations all around, but none for Chanukah. I keep seeing this places, even places that had at least an incorrect menorah last year - my own doctor, the infusion center, the vet. It's like everyone has forgotten there are Jews in NYC. It's finally my turn and a gregarious young man with brown curls calls me into his cubicle and reviews my application. He checks my ID and tells me "Steak Sauce" who for some reason they have listed as "A1" is in isolation with a cat cold and hasn't been eating well. That's not unusual for cats with colds - cats won't eat if they can't smell their food. Tuna is an easy solution because of its strong smell but ACC probably can't afford that. They've been giving him Mirtazapine, the same appetite med Connor takes. We put on gowns, booties, and caps and gloves to go into the cat isolation area. I tell the guy it's hard to get the gown on over my winter coat and he tells me he's Latino and that he doesn't like the winter, he was built for warmer climates. We pass a cage that holds a tiny orange and white kitten, so adorable. I hope someone takes it soon, that baby doesn't belong in jail. Steak Sauce is in the elevated compartment in his cage and doesn't want to be bothered, but that's fine, there will be plenty of time to get to know each other. We remove our PPE and go back to the cubicle. I sign the form and fork over the payment. I'm going to be stuck eating peanut butter for a week, but fuck it, this guy needs to get out of here. "I think God meant me to be doing this," says the guy, "helping animals." I think that if I wanted to help animals professionally, ACC, a kill shelter, would not be my choice. "I got a degree in animals," he says. "Animal behavior?" I ask and he nods. He goes and when he comes back he has Steak Sauce in a cardboard carrier, some food, and a voucher for a vet on the complete other end of Brooklyn from my house. A woman holds open the glass door, and I carry him out into the cold late afternoon air. We're on our way home.