One full month ago, Husband and I heard a cat crying. It began in the evening and continued through the next morning. And the next evening. And the morning after that. And it has not stopped. We can hear it from inside our house, with our doors and windows shut. Our own cats, totally lacking in sympathy, have begun writing terse notes to the management about the noise.
Two weeks ago, I put on my detective hat and went to see if I could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. This was not as simple as you might expect; Puzzletown has strange acoustics. I thought I’d tracked it to a little gray cat in an apartment across the courtyard from us, but while that cat and I were having a staring match through the window, I heard the sound again. I left the gray cat to its victory dance and walked outside the courtyard. And then, on the other side of the tall, black, pointy fence, I found the yowler.
Next to Puzzletown is the Puzzletown Chateau. It shares our name, but not our tax bracket. Its residents sip champagne in the back of stretch Hummers while yelling at their publicists. They are lifted, tucked, and tanned. Their personal assistants have personal assistants.
The yowly cat was on the small balcony of the Chateau’s penthouse apartment, pacing back and forth and looking deeply unhappy. I spoke to the Chateau security guards about it. They knew about the problem already, and said the owner had told them he would “get rid” of the cat the next day.
I’m sure you’ll be shocked when I tell you the cat was still crying the next evening. “I’ll call the police, if I have to,” I threatened.
“Wouldn’t do any good,” the security guard told me.
“Police can’t get in here.”
“Rules. We’re not allowed to let the police in here unless someone’s called 911 or they got a warrant.”
(Ah, money. How I long to possess thee, so that I too may flaut the law and common decency.)
They promised to speak to the owner again.
One week later, the cat was still crying. I called the leasing office for the property, where I spoke with a woman who grouchily promised to look into it. (Actually, her first response was “Why don’t you call the police?”) I told her I’d follow up in a few days.
Today I called back, and the person I’d spoken with before was “no longer with the company.” So I went through the whole story again with a woman who sighed when I told her which apartment it was. “Oh yes, we know that resident well.” She promised to take some action, and said I should call back tomorrow.
If that cat is still crying this weekend, I’m gonna handle this ninja-style.
Update: The Resident Relations director spoke with Evil Owner and gave them one last chance. When he failed to do anything, they called the Humane Society to schedule an appointment for someone to come get the cat. Does anyone know what happens to animals that are picked up by the Humane Society? Please tell me they don’t get gassed.