Become an Advocacy Brigade member and start taking an active role in improving the lives of animals. Please note, there is no charge to become an Advocacy Brigade member and participate in the legislative alerts—this is a free service.

I saw no dead bodies. The smell wasn’t even that bad and the cats looked healthy. But I certainly wouldn’t invite the neighbors over for a cocktail. On Animal Planet, I see professional animal rescue workers dressed head to toe in white protective gear entering a hoarder’s home. I see frightfully skinny, unkempt animals scurrying around or, because they can’t walk, laying in their own filth.

A call went out by Norma and Ellen (not their real names) to local cat rescuers in the New York City area to volunteer to help move over 80 cats living in a hoarder’s apartment. April (not her real name), the hoarder, was being evicted. Norma and Ellen were fearful of getting city agencies involved as they anticipated that all of the cats, whether feral or friendly, would be automatically put down.

I had been asked to help out on one particular night to help trap some of the ferals. I was warned of filth and fleas and to dress accordingly. So, I pulled on long pants and sneakers in weather that I would more have enjoyed wearing shorts and sandals and took the subway to April’s basement apartment in an attached house. I didn’t immediately see the address on the house, but knew from the bags of trash in front of the garage door, the flies around them and the smell that “this must be the place.” It was.

April opened the door and led me down a narrow hallway that was lined with more black trash bags, newspapers and other various tattered items. Through the door at the end was what, under normal circumstances, would have been the kitchen/dining area. Against the wall were a few kitchen chairs with cats perched on them. Aside from a narrow path on a feces-smeared, white-tiled floor leading to the door to the living room, there was no open space. There was no kitchen table and no appliances save for a refrigerator (with cats perched on top), a toaster oven and some cabinets with, you guessed it, cats on top of them.

Instead, there were cats in cages that were stacked on top of more cages along with a few carriers, mostly with cats inside. As I stood talking to April, I felt furry arms wrap themselves around my ankle. I looked down to see a mischievous, gray, 6-month-old kitten scamper away. An adult muted calico stood on top of a cage and head-butted me. Most of the other cats just stayed where they were, looking bored or resigned to their fate.

April led me to the door to the living room. I peered into the bathroom along the way, wondering about the rumor I’d heard that there were feral cats hiding in the hole in the ceiling in there. There were cats in the sink and peeking out at me from inside the bathtub, but no eyes glowing from the darkness from above.

The living room held more of the same as the kitchen: no furniture, just filth, cages, and cats. April hadn’t cleaned in a while... One empty cage on the floor served as a platform for another cage that held a cat inside. The empty cage held so much cat hair and scattered bits of multi-colored dry cat food that it looked like a miniature jungle.

Pam arrived and proceeded to take the lead on the trapping. She had been to April’s several times and knew April and the cats quite well. It struck me that she had come dressed in a pretty blouse, shorts and open-toed sandals that revealed freshly manicured, neon-colored toes. This was quite a contrast to Marleen, who showed up covered head to toe, complete with the kind of protective shirt worn by fencing enthusiasts and a kerchief over her mouth. If you saw her walking down the sidewalk, you would have crossed the street.

As Pam went about getting organized, about eight feral cats huddled on the windowsill, eyeing us in terror. April proudly showed me the plaques and certificates that her 19-year-old son had received in honor of his education achievements. She told me how she had gathered the cats in her home and how nobody helped her. She’d done it all by herself. I wasn’t sure if she was complaining or if she was proud of herself. She’d also said how she’d beaten cancer and hadn’t been to the doctor’s for a check-up in two years because she didn’t have the time.

I had only been there about an hour and a half when Pam told me that my help wasn’t needed. Having had to work in tight spaces with no time to spare, I think I understand that she could get more accomplished with fewer humans around. And dealing with April must have been taxing as it was.

The process began before I got involved and is still going on as I write this column. Most of the cats have been placed in temporary housing at shelters or in private homes or have been adopted. I have heard a couple of stories about some of the cats being placed in what were thought to be reputable places that turned out not to be. The rescuers still have quite a ways to go.

So many thoughts have kept going through my head throughout this process. Number one is, why did this happen in the first place? Is April to blame? But April is mentally ill. The last article I read about animal hoarders suggests that people like April have mental disabilities. They just aren’t sure how to categorize the illness.

So, where was the help she needed? What about her two kids? Both of them are now adults, but at some point, they had been living in this filth as minors. Where were their fathers or other family members? And I wonder what’s happening with the cats. They were placed with a myriad of different private families and shelters. What will happen to them, especially the ferals that can’t be adopted into conventional homes?

I suppose I’m not the first person to ask these questions and certainly won't be the last. It seems that every other week another hoarder is discovered somewhere in the US. It’s one thing when you see it on TV or read about it in the paper. It’s quite another when you’re seeing it first-hand.

Debbie Graham lives in Flushing, New York, where she is slave to ten cats. When she is not tending to them or her feral colonies, she is writing, sailing, drawing, or watching Humphrey Bogart movies. She works as an administrative assistant during the week and part-time on the weekends at Animal Haven, a local animal shelter.