"But the owner ..." the agent began. "Can't she see for herself?" The vet turned away. "Didn't you notice?" he asked. "She's blind." For months, the Society learned, the farm had been falling into ruin. Unpaid, the hired hands had drifted away one by one. The Society spent almost $1,000 bringing in fodder for the remaining animals and cleaning the stalls. The demented woman still refused to admit anything was amiss and even nailed up the barns to keep Society workers out. To protect the cattle from slow death, the Society had no choice but to bring the case to court. One of the women was eventually committed to a mental institution, with the help of the Society, the cattle were fed and watered regularly; they recovered their health and were sold to a farm that could assure them adequate care.
Deplorable as it is, cruelty following in the wake of human breakdown shocks us a little less than deliberate mistreatment. Of all the strange byways the Society has followed in its efforts to protect animals, the strangest has been the human mind itself. Sadists and psychopathic killers find their victims among animals as often as among humans. Angry, vengeful, filled with hatred for themselves and everyone else, some men and women lash out at animals because the animal can't strike back. Only a psychiatrist could unravel the the motives of a 200-pound giant of a man who calmly beat a kitten to death with a rake. Or another man who stabbed his own wire-haired terrier with a pocket knife and left her to die in a trash can. And, tragically, some of the cruelest tormentors of animals are children. "I couldn't begin to count the cases where adults and children, too, have tortured animals for amusement," says George Tuscher, present District Manager of the Queens Shelter and Supervisor of the Society's Humane Work Division from 1952 to 1961. "I remember plenty of it-and I wish I could forget." In the overall picture, fortunately, pathological cruelty is relatively low on the list. Just as often, the Society man will run into a situation such as the following: The ASPCA agent had gone out to investigate a complaint by a Brooklyn woman. "That dog in the next building," she said, "they must be killing him. You can hear him all down the block." The agent agreed that, from the sound of it, the dog must be having the hide peeled off him. The agent found the apartment easily and a pin-curled woman came to the door. The Society man questioned her very politely and carefully while the dog, sitting on the divan, yowled and howled relentlessly.
"What's wrong with the dog?" she asked indignantly. "There's nothing wrong." She invited the agent in to see for himself. "Am I cruel?" she cried. "I'm not even touching him. He just likes to bark!" The agent advised the neighbor that barking dogs are outside the Society's jurisdiction-unless, of course, the dog is barking because of provable cruelty. Many people believe that anything involving animals is a case for the Society. It isn't true. With compulsive barkers, the best the Society can do is suggest that the disturbed neighbor call the police or health departments-and offer sympathy. Among the easiest cases to correct are those of unwitting, unintentional cruelty: in shops where an uninformed sales girl neglects to check the cleanliness of water in a fish tank; the man who believes a whip will teach his dog obedience; enthusiastic young biologists who seriously believe they aid the cause of science by experimenting on a neighborhood cat. A warning usually suffices, and often the offender is amazed to realize he has been heedlessly cruel. The ASPCA follows up all such cases to make sure they really are corrected. If not, the Society will prosecute. But it's seldom necessary to go that far. Of all the cases the Society investigates in a year, only about I percent calls for court action. The toughest and most disheartening cases of cruelty are those resulting from a type of blind egotism-a complete disinterest and disregard for an animal's suffering. One woman, taking an extended vacation, left her two dogs locked up at home without food or water. A Bronx peddler drove his horse through the streets, unconcerned that the animal had no shoes. Stable-owners (who, of all people, should know better) continue to rent out animals covered with saddle sores. During a Television broadcast, a magician tried to hypnotize a rabbit. But the rabbit, evidently having a stronger mentality than the hypnotist, didn't cooperate.
The magician seized the rabbit by the ears and slammed it down repeatedly against the table. Explaining his treatment of the animal, the magician only shrugged and commented: "She wasn't working so good. I don't know why. Maybe because she's pregnant." The magician is an exception. In a business hardly noted for calm reserve or avoidance of the spectacular, most show people with animal acts take reasonable care of their performers. It would be pleasant to think that show people are more tenderhearted than others--- and perhaps they are; even so, a trained animal is valuable property, the owner's bread and butter, and the showman has a certain deep personal interest in protecting it. At the same time, the mental processes of entertainment producers or publicity agents are not always susceptible to analysis. One radio station hinted that a white bird might be the clue to finding a hidden $1,000 bill. New Yorkers, tending to take things literally, descended on City Hall Park en mass, armed with nets. The Society had to send a truck and four agents to protect the birds, and even at that, many pigeons were injured-some of them weren't even white. One Television director, the Society learned, planned to squirt ammonia into a dog's face, presumably to bring out some subtle emotion not obtainable otherwise. The Society contacted a program representative who agreed to drop this bit of business. "I regret to say," apologized the flustered representative, "that not one of us was aware that the ammonia spray could prove harmful to dogs." The National Association of Radio and Television Broadcasters' code includes this passage: The use of animals, both in the production of television programs and as a part of television program content, shall at all times be in conformity with accepted standards of humane treatment.
With this assurance, the Society can only kept its fingers crossed-and hope that some Television writer doesn't come up with a scene requiring an elephant on water skis. Theater people are probably smartest when it comes to animals. They avoid them. Directors shy away from using animals as props. Unless you twist his arm, an actor will shun playing a scene with a dog or cat on the stage. First, nobody can predict how the animal will behave. Besides, a dog or cat will upstage an actor every time.
"About half the complaints we get," says Colonel Rowan, "come from anonymous callers." Although shocked by a man beating his dog, the person who complains often feels vaguely embarrassed, or a little silly going to all that fuss over an animal. Perhaps the emergence of our better natures startles us, and we don't want to let on that anything has touched our sympathies. The desire not to stir up trouble, not to get involved, comes into play, too. In close-knit neighborhoods, people fear being known as talebearers and refuse, at the last moment, to sign a complaint or appear as a witness. These very human attitudes make the Humane Work Division's job much tougher. At the same time, suddenly and unexpectedly, the public can go all out in backing up the Society. The judge in one highly publicized case, for example, was deluged with mail from animal lovers. Another time, the owner of a riding academy, accused of starving his horses, got bushels of indignant letters. "Someday," Rowan says, "we hope the public will be as quick to report cases of cruelty as it is to turn in a fire alarm."
"When we investigate an anonymous report of cruelty," Rowan adds, "we tread carefully. If the plaintiff is unidentified and absent, by the same token the defendant doesn't know he's been accused." The Society is scrupulous about pointing out the legal position of all concerned-including the animal's.
When working outside the New York City area, the Society makes sure to advise state police, local police and local humane associations. Every case demands careful observance of the law and, usually, plenty of tact. Especially since the Society doesn't know in advance what it may run into one night, Ryan went out to check a report of a scheduled fight between a dog and a badger. The address was a Sutton Place penthouse. Another Society agent and a city detective waited outside while Ryan took the elevator to the top floor. He felt a little uneasy about the whole thing. Ryan has followed cases i
n Spanish-Harlem tenements as well as penthouses. But he also knows that the rich can be as voluble as the poor-and perhaps more so. The apartment covered two floors. On the lower, Ryan found his way into a kitchen where a butler and maid loaded refreshments on massive silver trays. One of the cooks caught sight of him. "I know what you're here for!" she said. "If you know," said Ryan, "then you tell me." The cook gave him a wink. "Upstairs," she said. On the upper floor the host, in evening dress, greeted Ryan cheerfully. "Welcome, welcome," the man said. "What can I do for you?" Ryan stepped inside and looked around. There was an impressive number of gorgeous women per square foot of floor space. None of them, somehow, seemed married to any of the gentlemen present. In one corner of the room sat a white bull terrier, blinking his pink-rimmed eyes. At the other corner, Ryan saw a wooden crate. One of the girls, looking terrified, held a cord that would open the side of the container. "Can I talk to you privately?" Ryan asked the host. "Later ..." The man waved his hand. "Now, gentlemen, you've all made your bets on the dog or the badger-"
"That's what I want to-" Ryan began. "Pull the cord!" the host shouted to the girl. The men tensed and sat forward. "Let the dog go!" The trembling girl gave the rope a yank, then turned and put her hands over her ears. The side of the crate fell away. The bull terrier loped over and sniffed at the contents: a baroque, beautifully decorated porcelain pot filled with dog biscuits. "And that, gentlemen," announced the host, "is the old badger game!" The guests began to shout indignantly, a few of the girls screamed-possibly with relief. "If I'd known that son of a gun was a practical joker," one stout gentleman muttered, "I'll be damned if I'd have put him up for the club." Eventually, everyone decided it was funny and began to laugh. The host beamed. "What was it you wanted to see me about?" he asked Ryan. "Nothing," said Ryan. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood." The servants had begun to hand out drinks. The host invited Ryan to join in but the ASPCA agent politely declined. The disappointed host walked to the door with Ryan and wished him good night. The bull terrier had finished the dog biscuits and was now snoring peacefully in a corner. The dog, Ryan decided, certainly hadn't been the victim of cruel treatment. By morning, the terrier would probably be the only one in any kind of shape at all. For the others, it looked like it was going to be quite a party.
8 - Chicken
Genuine badger-baiting, like all blood sports, is now illegal. Most New Yorkers prefer television, anyway. The only blood sport that has hung on to any large extent is cockfighting-"fighting chickens." Like the males of any species, roosters can be pretty disagreeable toward their rivals. But cockfighting has turned the ordinary barnyard scuffle into something else. The last thing in the world any sensible rooster wants is to get killed; but with a pair of razor-sharp steel spurs forced onto his legs, this is what usually happens. If the spectators and bettors find this amusing, the roosters would probably disagree. Because fighting chickens carries a fine or imprisonment, the gentlemen who do it would rather avoid anybody with any inclination to uphold the law. Yet this is not always the case. Ryan was on night duty in the shelter when the little man came in. He was stubby, tight-faced, in a neat fedora and a pinstripe suit. Under his arm he carried a brown paper parcel which he set down on a dispensary table. "I have a problem," he said. This hardly surprised Ryan. The little man looked as if he might have many problems. Unless Ryan missed his guess, one of the more urgent ones involved staying on the better side of the police. "Name?" Ryan asked, reaching for a note pad.
"I do not make myself clear," said the man. "The problem is not the name."
"I understand," Ryan said. "I was only thinking how much easier it would be if I didn't have to call you Hey or Mac or something." "Frankie," the man muttered, unwrapping the parcel. He passed it over to Ryan. Inside were three defunct chickens. "I am in the egg business," Frankie said. He went on to explain that his three prize hens had suddenly keeled over. "Just like that," he said. "One day healthy and happy, next morning gone. I want to know what's the matter with them. Outside of being dead, that is."
"Frankie," Ryan said patiently, "I want to tell you something you already know. These chickens couldn't lay an egg, not even if they wanted to lay an egg more than anything else in the world. These chickens are called roosters. You've been fighting them." Frankie gave Ryan a look of total innocence. "I never fight a chicken in my life."
"Come on, Frankie," Ryan said. "Don't you think I know gamecocks when I see them?"
"Maybe I make a mistake about the eggs," Frankie admitted. "Now that I think about it, these chickens are always very aggressive." Ryan threw down his pencil. "Go back to your farm. Leave the chickens here. I'll dispose of them, if that's what you want."
"No, no," Frankie protested. "Like I say, I got to find out what happens."
"What happened," Ryan said, "is they lost."
"Yeah, but they lose in a funny way. Like they get hit by lightning. I want a laboratory analysis," Frankie said. "The whole works." Ryan nodded. He told Frankie to come back in a week and carried the parcel over to the Society's research department.
Ryan already had his own ideas about the gamecocks. The report from the pathology lab confirmed it. When Frankie appeared at the shelter again, Ryan told him the news. The roosters had been poisoned. Frankie's face turned dark. Ryan went on: "Your friends probably grooved the spurs on the other rooster and packed in strychnine with Vaseline. The lab says there's enough strychnine in those chickens to knock out a horse. In other words, you've been suckered."
"This," Frankie said meditatively, "is the work of Big Willie. I am very disappointed in Big Willie." Frankie scowled and thought for a while. "Big Willie," he said finally, "is not following the rules of fair play."
"You mention that to him," Ryan said. "Yes," Frankie said, "it should be pointed out firmly. I even think that Big Willie should not be allowed to fight his chickens any more."
"You might complain to the Athletic Commission," Ryan suggested. Frankie bent forward. "Would you be interested," he said confidentially, "to know where Big Willie fights his chickens tonight?" "I'd be real interested," Ryan said. Frankie scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Ryan. "Here," he said. "Just go right in. You don't need to knock." That night, the chicken fighters did not finish their program. The ones who failed to exit promptly through the windows were booked for a magistrate's hearing. Ryan did not make the acquaintance of anyone calling himself Big Willie. But he was interested to meet several others, wanted by the police for numerous reasons in addition to cockfighting. The following week, Ryan had a telephone call from Frankie. Big Willie had not been at the last sporting event.
But if Ryan cared to drop in at another address, he might find him there. Ryan did so. The elusive Willie was still not among those present, but the haul netted about a dozen others. Frankie called up later to apologize. "Big Willie is evidently alarmed," he said. "He is being very cagey. This is normal, because he has a few other beefs against him. I even think he gives up personal appearances for a while. But he still has money going on the chickens. Now, you take down this number...." All in all, Frankie tipped off Ryan to twenty cockfights. At the twentieth, Frankie himself seemed a little nervous. "This is a big one," he said tensely. "Very big. You're a nice guy. Maybe I should do you a favor and forget the address."
"You can do the chickens a favor and tell me the address," Ryan said. "Go ahead, I got a pencil." The cockfight, according to Frankie's information, would be out of town and well up the Hudson. Ryan, like all ASPCA agents, has jurisdiction throughout New York State; so on the day of the fight, he drove north and stopped in at the chambers of the local magistrate for a search warrant. "What's the complaint?" asked the magistrate, with a smile. "Chicken fighting," said Ryan. The magistrate started up angrily. "Chicken fighting? Are you out of your head? Come up here with a complaint about prostitution, numbers, dope, or something reasonable and I'll listen to you. But don't give me some idiotic charge about chicken fighting!" Ryan repeated that he had informati
on justifying a search warrant. "And I tell you," the magistrate said sharply, "we don't fight chickens in this town. I haven't seen a cockfight for ..."
Ryan looked up at the ceiling. "Get out of here," the magistrate ordered. "From what I hear," Ryan said, "this fight is scheduled for eleven o'clock."
"I'll be in bed long before that," the magistrate said. "I hope so," said Ryan. "I really do." Ryan finally got his search warrant from a Superior Court judge. That night, with two local police officers, Ryan visited the address Frankie had given him. He visited it so quickly that a number of guests who had suddenly decided to leave were unable to do so. The cockfight was being held in a storage room of a warehouse. Ryan and the officers smashed in the door. As soon as the spectators saw the uniforms, they lost interest in the game. Milling and thrashing around in the room, shouting at the officers and each other, they sought a variety of nonexistent exits. One man tried to jump through a window usually a satisfactory technique, only in this case there was no window. The two fighting roosters went flapping off into the warehouse. The cages holding the other gamecocks somehow got broken. The occupants flew to all corners of the room. One rooster, judging it to be morning, began to crow at the top of his voice. Through a cloud of flying feathers, Ryan caught sight of a man in the awkward situation of trying to climb into a packing case. "OK," Ryan said, collaring him, "come out of that. You're part of the inventory." The man straightened up, brushed a few feathers from his hand-stitched lapels. He was big and burly with a gardenia, now somewhat the worse for wear, in his buttonhole. "What's the big idea?" he asked in a voice that had all the warmth of a plunge in the East River. "Take your hands off me. Don't you know who I am?" Ryan gulped. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I do." Frankie had been right when he had said the cockfight would be a big one.
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 8
