"Why not?" Coles asked. "All he needs to do is let go."
"I don't think he will," Ryan said. "When he has a fistful of banana, I don't think he'll realize that he has to drop it if he wants to get loose."
"Suppose you're right?" Coles said. "What do you end up with? A monkey with a coconut on his hand."
"No, you don't see the point," Ryan said. "The coconut's bound to get jammed in a beam or crossbar. Then he'll be stuck. We can climb up and bring him down."
Ryan put his plan into effect. The two men watched breathlessly while the Professor plunged his hand into the coconut. As Ryan had predicted, the Professor's fist was too full of banana to slip back through the hole. Ryan did not foresee what happened next. The Professor merely swung his arm in a great arc and shattered the coconut against a girder. Ryan and Coles went back to the shelter. Neither said anything for a while. "We have brains," Ryan said at last. "We can think things through. That's one advantage we have on the Professor. We can analyze. We can figure things out."
"I'm not so damned sure of that any more," said Coles. "Not with the Professor."
"Our whole approach is wrong," Ryan said. "We've been trying to get to him with things he basically doesn't want. The Professor doesn't care about food. He's got warehouses loaded with it. What we have to figure," Ryan went on, "is this: what's the one thing he wants that he doesn't have now?" Coles' face lit up. "You mean?"
"That's right," Ryan said. "Tomorrow we call the zoo and we borrow a girl monkey." The zoo does not usually loan out simian Mata Harris, but the curator agreed to allow Ryan the services of a female Capuchin named Mike. At the waterfront, Ryan set up a block-and-tackle to operate the sliding door of the cage. In the back wall of the cage, he drilled a hole and ran a long line through it. At one end of the line was Mike; at the other, Ryan. Coles stood by to operate the block-and-tackle. Mike's chirping attracted the Professor almost immediately. He climbed down from a crossbeam and strutted back and forth, trying to impress the new arrival. Each time the Professor came near Mike, Ryan drew up a little on the leash and brought her closer to the cage.
Mike was a perfect Lorelei. She shrugged her shoulders, pranced up and down, giggling and tittering. Ryan had no idea what she might be telling the Professor, but it sounded inviting. And for the Professor himself, it was love at first sight. From the terror of the waterfront and snatcher of kippers, the Professor had changed to an ardent Romeo. The two monkeys came closer to the cage. Jabbering and ogling Mike, the Professor reached out for her. With seductive indignation, Mike scuttled into the cage. The Professor, leering happily as if he had finally persuaded Mike to see his etchings, leaped after her. Coles lowered the door.
"Well," Ryan said. "Let that be a lesson for you."
"Too late," Coles said. "I'm already married." The Professor and Mike were getting along famously when Ryan and Coles drove them both to a calm domestic future at the zoo. "He knows he's been caught," Ryan said, "but I don't think he cares."
4 - The Society
Monkeys, of course, aren't the only animals rating the Society's attention. In New York, today, cats (or kangaroos) can do a lot better than sitting around looking at kings. From the Society, a cat or a kangaroo-or any other animal-can get royal treatment in the way of medical care, food, shelter, service and equipment. Affection is available in king-size quantities, too, although not measurable statistically. The Society cares for upwards of 270,000 animals a year and spends close to $2,000,000 doing it-a budget including such items as 48 tons of dog food, 5 tons of cat food and 25 tons of yesterday's newspapers. The ASPCA operates nine shelters, one of them recently rebuilt in the Bronx at a cost well above $250,000. Within the past five years, the Society has constructed the $350,000 Animal port for animal air travelers at Idlewild terminal; added a $60,000 pathology section to its new $1,000,000 hospital-shelter-headquarters at 92nd Street and York Avenue in Manhattan. Veterinary staff has increased from 9 to 14. The Society is still in the midst of the most profound reorganization and expansion program in its history. Before this reorganization, the ASPCA risked falling into the predicament of the man who arrived at one of the shelters and asked the Society to take charge of a 600-pound Galapagos tortoise he had at home. It was a little too much for him, the man admitted, and he really didn’t think he could give the tortoise proper care.
The Society, perpetually confronted with personnel problems involving stray whales, grizzly bears and other creatures, found a berth for the tortoise at the New York Aquarium. But, like the tortoise-owner, the Society feared it would soon be overwhelmed by the size of its own task and the limitations of its own resources. For instance-the Supervisor of Humane Work, then only a department even though representing the Society's very reason for existence, didn't even have a secretary, typed most of his own letters, coped with constantly ringing phones, tried to cover a greater New York metropolitan area with only seven uniformed agents, and got otherwise bogged down in clerical impedimenta. William Rockefeller, ASPCA President since 1956 and one of the youngest men ever to hold that office, had a young man's answer. Rockefeller, Yale '40 and a partner in a prominent Manhattan law firm, made it clear that he didn't give a rap how the Society had operated before but how it was going to operate now and in the future. No figurehead, the Society's President works as hard as anybody else, sparking ideas and providing leadership to see them through (at a salary of zero per year, the same non-wage rate as that for the ASPCA Board of Managers). The idea Rockefeller sparked was this: the Society, a non-profit organization, should function as efficiently and smoothly as any modern corporation-and even more efficiently, to make best use of limited funds. Struggling along with outmoded management methods was false economy. Straitjacketed by insufficient staff and working tools, the Society might end up doing an insufficient job. Rockefeller called in a well-known firm of management consultants who analyzed every aspect of the Society's operations. (Humane Work, the firm suggested, should be a full fledged division of the Society with a director, not a supervisor, and with enough special agents and clerical help to do a creditable job. This was only one of several hundred recommendations.)
In this case, efficiency didn't mean cutting back. It meant expansion: more staff, more equipment, more office space. With Rockefeller's inspiration, the society not only began to enjoy its face-lifting but started thinking of even bolder projects. Talking about the newly built $60,000 pathology lab, William Mapel, ASPCA Administrative Vice-President, says: "We'd like the same kind of expansion program in every one of our departments. There's no end to this thing, and once the idea gets around that improvements have to be made there is no dearth of dollar-spending suggestions. Thus it is that a lot of ideas get thrown out. For those adopted we scratch and scratch for money." Missouri-born, Mapel is a tall, good-looking man with a silvery mustache and a soft spot for Irish setters. A graduate of the University of Missouri, a college professor, Director of Washington and Lee's School of Journalism, holder of a traveling fellowship to Europe, Mapel has also been a much honored newspaper executive. In 1958 he retired as President of the Publishers' Association of New York City after 17 years that "almost did the old boy in." With a career that would normally have taken at least two men to achieve, Mapel enjoys being slightly on the shady side of sixty. "One of the delights of being old," he grins, "is that you don't have to pretend you know all the answers." The truth is that Mapel, like everyone else in the Society, thinks young and acts young. The youthful outlook, combined with repeated applications of hard work, is one of the things moving the Society into renaissance.
While nothing in the Society's history equals the rejuvenation going on today, the ASPCA has in fact shown constant growth ever since its founding in 1866. Colonel Alfred Wag-staff, first Society President to begin an administration in the twentieth century, led in establishing the most complete hospital for animals the humane movement had ever seen, and a Brooklyn shelter then called the most modern in existence. During Wagstaff's 1906-1921 administration
, longest of any Society President, the emphasis shifted from horses to smaller animals, although, as late as 1918, the Society still needed 25 men to operate the Society's horse-watering service. During World War I, Wagstaff protested sending tens of thousands of horses and mules abroad; it was ridiculous enough for people to be shooting at each other, let alone animals. With other humane organizations, the Society joined in forming the American Red Star Animal Relief to furnish medical supplies, instruments, bandages and horse ambulances to the Veterinary Corps. With New York having become the country's per-Hollywood movie capital, the Society had problems restraining the wilder flights of cinematic fancy. Following the Society's complaint, a judge convicted one movie director of forcing a horse, in the interest of reality, to jump off a 43-foot cliff. While protecting movie animals came as a new and unexpected wrinkle, the Society still had to cope with old familiar troubles. As they seem destined to do forever, cats and dogs fell out of windows, swallowed stones, bones and hatpins. Between l912 and 1916, the hospital had cared for 25,000 patients. By the early 20's, the average annual admission figures had practically doubled. More hospital cases needed surgery, and Society veterinarians pioneered work in animal anesthesia. Today, the new pathology lab continues its cancer research, but as early as 1920 it had already begun a cooperative program with Memorial Hospital, using radium treatments.
"The city is running away with us!" cried Frank K. Sturgis, Society President from 192l to 1932. Society agents of that era patrolled a metropolis of 6,000,000 people, covering 309 square miles and about 4,496 miles of streets; the Society's 47 ambulances covered 880,000 miles in one IS-month period-about 2,000 miles a day. Under Sturgis, the Society began its own building boom, adding to the Brooklyn Shelter, constructing new shelters in the Bronx, Staten Island and Queens. For the third time since 1912, the Society expanded its hospital, putting up a four-story addition that tripled the hospital's capacity. The April 1925 issue of Veterinary Medicine remarked: The equipment of this institution is little short of marvelous, it is a pity there is not a veterinary college in New York City so beautifully planned and equipped. As one of our visitors stated, he has been in practically every institution in Europe and has never seen anything comparable to this place.
On top of running the hospital, Chief Veterinarian Dr. Raymond J. Garbutt acquired another duty: giving weekly talks on animal care over a brand-new communications medium, radio. The Society, in 1928, sheltered its first two lions-one a lioness who added to this population by presenting the Society with three cubs born in the hospital. During that same period other patients, among the 10,000, included a camel that had caught pneumonia while starring in a Passion Play, and a cat who had somehow contrived to get himself ignominiously and thoroughly stuck on flypaper. Presidents George M. Woolsey (1932-1937) and Alexander S. Webb (1937-1948) had the intricate task of steering the Society through the Depression, when as much as 70 percent of hospital admissions were charity ones. Pet owners who could ill afford a doctor for themselves crowded the waiting rooms with ailing animals. One day, the place was so jammed that Alexander Webb could hardly make his way to the offices. "Hey, you!" a dog-owner shouted at the elegant, impeccably dressed President. "You wait your turn!" Society workers took voluntary salary cuts rather than curtail any ASPCA services. Even at that, the flood of new patients strained facilities so much that Dr. Garbutt pleaded: "Those who are about to acquire pets should realize that unless they have the means of caring for them properly ... they would be far wiser not to assume the responsibility of ownership." Needless to say, pet owners did not follow Garbutt's advice. Between 1930 and 1937, the first year of webb's administration, hospital cases doubled.
Minor details such as possible bankruptcy have never much influenced animal lovers. After the Society weathered the Depression, World War II added bizarre problems of its own. In addition to giving courses in animal aid in case of bombings, and working out a detailed program of emergency care, the Society had to figure out what to do about dog licenses. In a metal shortage, the Society ordered licenses made of pressed fiber. They must have been tasty, for a lot of dogs promptly chewed them up. The Government banned production of ready made dog or cat food, and the Society had to contrive a new animal diet including chicken heads and feet, fish heads, vegetables and table scraps. With canned milk severely rationed, the Society's purchasing agent knocked himself out locating powdered milk for cats. He finally found 200 pounds in Wisconsin, and had it rushed to New York. The cats wouldn't even taste the stuff. Just before the end of the war, an outbreak of rabies over burdened the Society's facilities and finances. The Board of Health ruled that any dog even remotely suspected of being in contact with a rabid animal had to be quarantined six months in an ASPCA shelter. The Society soon found itself up to its ear’s in dogs and swamped with new expenses-to say nothing of protests from furious owners. In 1944, the Society protested the unnecessary strictness of the quarantine and asked for modifications. In a huff, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia not only refused but threatened to deprive the ASPCA of dog license money it had been collecting since 1894.
But New Yorkers assailed the Legislature with so many blistering letters that the Little Flower's bill withered and died in committee. In 1948, a crisis nearly forced the Society to close its doors. The Veterans Administration decided to build a hospital at Avenue A and 24th Street, site of the ASPCA's own hospital, garage and Manhattan Shelter since 19l 2. The Federal Government awarded $304,000 for the condemned property, barely enough to buy a vacant lot in Manhattan. Duplicating the building would cost nearly three times that amount. With its new President, John T. Beals, Jr the Society appealed the decision and meanwhile launched a fund-raising campaign to fill a $500,000 gap. Construction began and, after two years of delays and setbacks, Society trucks moved material and equipment into the still unfinished building. Cargo included l00 dogs, half a dozen cats-and one squirrel. The courts eventually increased the award to cover about half the new construction costs. Despite the financial hardship, one good thing emerged: the Society gained a sparkling new million-dollar shelter and hospital, a showpiece in the humane movement. Another storm broke in 1949. Following the hassle with La Guardia, the Society continued to collect dog license fees. Originally, the Legislature had intended this revenue to reimburse the Society for operating its animal shelters. A lot had happened since 1894. Shelter service had increased. The license fee hadn't. The difference between the money coming in and the cost of shelter service amounted to a stunning deficit. President Beals led the Society in asking the Legislature to increase the fee-for the first time in 55 years. Licenses had been $2, renewals, $1; and the Legislature finally agreed to raise new licenses and renewals to $3. A drop in the bucket; but the Society, by this time, had learned to live on drops in the bucket.
The Society also had to learn to live with controversy. In 1952, some of the most kindhearted people in the world stood up at one of the Society's Annual Meetings and shouted insults at ASPCA executives and President Hugh E. Paine. One woman spat at him as he and his wife passed through the crowd. Pickets marched back and forth in front of the Manhattan headquarters. Eighteen Society members filed suit to oust the entire Board of Managers. Other members angrily resigned. Hugh Paine and Society administrators faced a minority reaction to a new state law. The Metcalf-Hatch Law-a name unfortunate in its connotation of cattle breeding and poultry farm-authorizes approved laboratories and hospitals to requisition through the Department of Health unclaimed, unwanted animals from any humane organization receiving public funds. The Society receives public funds in the form of dog license fees Therefore, the law obliges the Society to provide, on demand, unwanted animals for experimentation. Cloudy thinkers among the vociferous minority harbored the idea that the Society itself had somehow invented Metcalf-Hatch. Which it had not. Nor had it supported the law. The Society had no hand in the matter; nor had it any choice. The law was specific, the Society had to obey it. That was that. That was not quite that. The Society would ob
ey the law-but Paine inaugurated a special policy: inspecting laboratories using animals in research. If the law forced the Society to give up unclaimed animals for experimentation, the Society determined to make sure the animals at least had proper care.
While Metcalf-Hatch did not grant the right of inspection, every requisitioning laboratory accepted the Society's policy. The ASPCA drew up a set of standards assuring laboratory animals of balanced diet; well-lighted, well-ventilated and clean wards; adequate quarters; considerate attention; enough exercise; and, where surgery is involved, proper anesthesia and postoperative care. The New York State Society for Medical Research agreed to the Society's withholding of animals from any institution failing to meet these standards. Starting in 1961, the Society's own graduate veterinarians, rather than its humane agents, began to make unannounced inspections which now average about 250 per year. Hospital directors have welcomed the veterinarians. Substandard lab conditions result mainly from lack of knowledge, and when a Society vet makes recommendations the hospital complies quickly. Sixty-three institutions are involved. Not long ago, an ASPCA veterinarian brought one laboratory's attention to dirty, disorderly animal wards, uncovered food barrels, littered cages and a roach population that wasn't part of anybody's research program. Following the Society's suggestions, the lab improved so thoroughly that one ASPCA inspector later called it a "model of scientific endeavor." Nevertheless, one small segment of New York's animal lovers, ignoring the Society's efforts to work within the law, nagged Paine throughout his four-year term (1952-1956). The misunderstanding continues, although tempers show signs of cooling. In the whole touchy question of animal experimentation, perhaps the most lucid summary of today's attitude comes from William Rockefeller.
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 4
