I remember Ninja, especially at Halloween/Samhain.
She was our first kitten, warming our newlywed home all those years ago. We were so painfully poor, without a car or a telephone. When we heard her plaintive cries at our back stoop, though we hardly had money to feed ourselves, we took her in.
She was a tiny black ball of fur, too young to be separated from her mother. Someone must have taken her mother and siblings away, leaving her to fend for herself in that grimy, run down apartment complex on Guam that was our first home together. She was quiet, happy and playful, seemingly oblivious to her abandonment and the dangers that could have taken her little life. She loved her nightly cuddles in bed with Lee and I; the only human companions she had likely ever known.
We had been married less than two months when we received gut-wrenching news. Lee had orders to attend school at Chanute Air Force Base in Illinois, back in the United States for 3 months. I was still suffering from a lingering pneumonia that caused my medical discharge from the Navy, and with no phone or car, and not even a friend to call for help, Lee refused to leave me alone 9,000 miles away from home. We had no furniture to put into storage. We were still using the pots and dishes loaned to us by the Navy Family Service Center. We had only one thing important to us that we could not take along. Our beautiful baby, Ninja.
Like many young enlisted families or single military members, we faced the unthinkable: leaving our pet behind. Despite the Navy's reputation as being a "shipmate" driven service where we all pull together to help one another, this is not always the case. Being new to the command, we had not settled into the cliques or politics and were, as a result, completely friendless. We spoke with everyone at the command, but no one would take Ninja in, though it was only for 3 months and many of them had their own pets and knew what we were facing. Not a single "shipmate" stepped forward to help with our heartbreaking dilemma.
Finally, knowing our only other alternative was to take her to the shelter, we asked our neighbor - an elderly man, practically a stranger to us - to feed her and care for her until our return. He agreed that she could stay on his back stoop. We gave him the food we'd bought her and all the spare money we had, $25. We were terrified for her, but helpless to do better.
Imagine our incredible relief and joy when we returned to find our little ball of fluff a lanky bundle of energy. She remembered us and was so glad to see us return. With the dog fighting industry such a strong force on Guam at that time, we feared the worst the entire 3 months we'd spent at Chanute.
Soon after, I began working as an arts and humanities beat reporter for the
Pacific Daily News in Agana. Finally, we were getting on our feet and had more than rice and bread on our dinner table! We adopted 2 more rescue kittens - Chani Tailchaser and MeerClarSloane - and were assigned a wonderful base house on Nimitz Hill. Our kitty threesome loved the new home, especially the rubber-tread stairs, spending hours chasing one another up and down them.
Ninja was older than Chani and Sloane and soon grew tired of their rambunctious play. She also developed a terrible habit of bolting outside any time the doors would open. This was made all the more difficult because, being built to typhoon-resistant standards, the doors were hydraulic and opened outward. There was no quick way to open or close them like you would with a normal door.
Before we even realized she was in heat, she slipped out one morning when Lee left for work and was soon pregnant. She had 6 kittens on New Years Day 1989, three of which were stillborn. The three remaining were wonderful black bundles of fur themselves. We were astonished that suddenly members of our command would step forward and want to adopt these babies. Within days of their weaning, all three had homes with loving families. The next day, Ninja went to the Army vet on Naval Station to be spayed.
Somehow, despite being spayed, Ninja still raced out of any open door. We tried water pistols, noise makers, nothing deterred her. Every time she managed to get out, we were afraid for her safety. So many nights we would call and call for her to come inside, only to find her sauntering in just as we had given up hope.
Halloween 1989 was a different story, however.
We were 2 weeks away from our transfer back to the US, with all our belongings long gone; shipped on ahead to our next duty station. The house was empty except for our clothes, our cats and their carriers. I had already left my job with the paper, and was spending a quiet night alone with candy for the many children in our housing area.
We had planned to put Ninja with Chani, Sloane and Sorsha - another rescue kitten we adopted July '89 - in their room upstairs. Unfortunately, she bolted away long before dark as my husband was leaving for work. Nimitz Hill Housing had always been a safe neighborhood so I never even imagined what would happen.
Trick or Treaters came and went and there was no sign of Ninja.
The next morning we called for her repeatedly, but still no sign. We put out her favorite food and a dish of water, but she remained absent.
Three days later, our neighbor came to ask if we owned a black cat. We said yes and they replied that they had bad news. They had found, lying under their car, a battered and wounded black cat.
We called her name and out she staggered, half dragging her hindquarters. As she came closer, to our horror we saw that a lemon-sized chunk had been gouged out of her back. The bones of her spine were exposed and the flesh surrounding it was a rotting mass.
A child, the son of our neighbor across the street, told us about a group of young boys - the oldest of which was 8 or 9 - who had stolen a machete; a wickedly sharp knife that measures between 19 and 31 inches long and is normally used to hack through dense jungle growth. They had carried this dangerous weapon around Halloween night playing and showing off. The child explained that these boys had boasted to all the kids in the neighborhood how they had coaxed Ninja close enough to chop a chunk out of her back.
I sobbed as I listened, taking poor wounded Ninja in my arms. She didn't struggle or cry out. She only purred as she pressed herself weakly against me.
We tried to find a vet who would euthanize her, but were met with exorbitant fees we could not afford with my husband's meager salary and our upcoming transfer. Finally, when there was no other alternative on the entire island, we took our beloved Ninja to the animal shelter. When Lee spoke with them by phone, they agreed to put her down as soon as we brought her in for only $15. They even said we could be present. Unfortunately, when we got there it was another story.
The shelter was an ominous place, far removed from the rest of the village of Barragada, looking more like a public dump than a place for animals. We were confronted with an aggressive, angry Guamanian whose English was very poor. We explained what we were told on the phone. He promptly told us that was a lie. Ninja would be placed into a holding cage outside. We would not be allowed to be with her, or even see her again. Worst of all he said that they didn't have time to euthanize her that day. We asked if we could bring her back early in the morning only to be told that it would make no difference. They only performed the euthanasia when enough animals had been accumulated. We were horrified by this.
It began to rain as he took Ninja from my arms. And for the first time since we found her, she cried out. A long, piercing cry as she saw the wretched fate ahead of her. As I sobbed in reply, the attendant looked at me as though I were crazy, making some muttered comment I couldn't understand.
My husband explained what happened and the attendant commented that it was too bad, but at least she hadn't been stolen for use in the fighting dog trade so prevalent on the island. He locked the cage and walked away without a backward glance at Ninja or us.
Ninja's keening cry followed us as we left in the rain. It haunts me to this day.
We reported the attack on Ninja to base security and the Guamanian police. NOTHING was done. We were treated with the utmost disrespect; they even tried to shame us for wasting time they could spend "going after the real criminals." The Navy's security patrolmen actually laughed, asking: "What do you expect us to do about it?"
Finally, we confronted the parents and were resoundingly shouted down, insulted and threatened. The universal opinion was, "You don't have kids, so you don't have a right to complain. Kids kill animals all the time. It's just boys being boys."
Nothing can ease the heartbreak of not being able to save her. Nothing can calm the rage I continue to feel as the years pass and animal abuse is still shrugged off as unimportant and a "harmless child's prank."
The Halloween (Samhain) season seems to bring out the need in certain people to maim, torture and kill animals. It seems a year does not pass that the news isn't filled with horror stories of animals maimed and killed by strangulation, burning, stoning, beating, drowning, or disembowelment because fireworks were forced into their mouths and rectums. These stories are inevitably accompanied by the comments of the parents and other family members of these animal abusers, saying how society is making entirely too big a deal over animal abuse; after all their kids were just playing around, being kids.
Despite the outcry of animal lovers the world over, we are continually shouted down, belittled and threatened by those who feel abusing and even killing animals is of little consequence. We are the crazy ones; not those who would set fire to a kitten or toss an elderly dog (stolen from its senior citizen owner, her only companion) from a bridge into a freezing river.
Do NOT let your beloved companions fall victim to these so-called adolescent pranks! An indoor pet is a safe pet.
Do not allow children to believe violence against animals is acceptable behavior. Educate others about the connection between animal abuse and violent crime. Spread the word that when children hurt animals, they are almost certainly the victims of abuse themselves.
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