This is not Ginger, but I thought this old photograph was appropriate.
Although their names were omitted from the payrolls, the fire dogs of the Metropolitan Fire Department played some very important roles in nineteenth-century New York City. This is the story of Ginger, a famous fire dog of Old New York.
Not only were they considered pets of the firehouse and furry friends of the neighborhood, but they also worked hard barking loudly to clear the streets ahead of the horse-drawn engines, guarding the men’s equipment at the scene of a fire, spurring the horses on to greater speed by nipping at their legs, or alerting the firemen to injured fire victims.
For 16 years, Ginger did all of these things and more for Hook and Ladder Company No. 5 of Greenwich Village, New York.
Ginger, a mutt, joined the firehouse at 95 Charles Street in 1872 – just seven years after the hook and ladder company was organized. According to The New York Times, Ginger was a “fireman’s dog” who “took an almost human interest in the affairs of the company.” He would always promptly respond to fire alarms, and his short, sharp barks would mingle with the truck’s loud gong as he ran in front of the horses.
All the children in the neighborhood loved the fire dog, especially the little schoolgirls, who would often stop at the firehouse on their way to and from school to play with the friendly dog they called Ginger.
On November 16, 1888, Ginger met his demise while taking his daily walk on Bleecker Street. The old fire dog was reportedly injured when he was hit by a truck; a police officer used his revolver to put Ginger out of his misery. Ginger was buried in the yard of the firehouse following a visitation for the school children.
A Brief History of Hook and Ladder Company No. 5 The Metropolitan Hook and Ladder Company No. 5 was organized on September 25, 1865. It was one of the twelve hook and ladder companies organized that year under a state act titled “An Act to Create a Metropolitan Fire District.” This bill, passed into law on March 30, 1865, abolished New York’s volunteer fire department and created the Metropolitan Fire District, a Board of Commissioners, and the Metropolitan Fire Department (MFD).
The new hook and ladder company had 12 members, including Foreman Charles O’Shay, an assistant-foreman, driver, and nine privates. The combined annual salary for all the company members was $8,550.
In 1866, Harper’s Weekly featured this illustrated print celebrating the official formation of New York City’s Metropolitan Fire Department. Museum of the City of New York Collections
Prior to the transition from volunteer to paid service in 1865, New York City was served by 18 hook and ladder companies as follows:
Mutual No. 1, Chelsea No. 2, Eagle No. 4, Union No. 5, Mechanics No. 7, Empire No. 8, Washington No. 9, C.V. Anderson No. 10, Harry Howard No. 11, Friendship No. 12, Columbian No. 14, Baxter No. 15, Liberty No. 16, Hibernia No. 18, Phoenix No. 3, Lafayette No. 6, Marion No. 13, John Decker No. 17.
During the transition, Columbian Hook and Ladder No. 14, which was housed at 96 Charles St., was replaced by Hook and Ladder Company No. 5. Hook and Ladder 5 occupied the Charles St. firehouse until November 25, 1975, when the company moved into its present quarters at 227 Sixth Avenue.
Columbian No. 14 — “Wide Awake” This volunteer company was organized May 11, 1854, with Robert S. Dixon as foreman, Kinloch S. Derickson as assistant, Robert Wright as secretary, William Hutchings as treasurer, and ten other members. They worked out of a temporary location on Greenwich Street near Amos Street, which they erected at their own expense in May 1854. In January 1857 the company moved into their new Italianate-style firehouse on Charles Street and took possession of a new truck finished by Pine & Hartshorn of New York City.
The new firehouse was among the best in the city, and featured a grand meeting room and parlor, a well-appointed bunk room and truck room, and a large library. There was also a beautiful little garden attached to the house, where on summer evenings the members would gather to while away the quiet hours. One must wonder if it was in this peaceful garden that Ginger the fire dog of Hook and Ladder Company No. 5 was laid to rest.
Built in 1854 as a carriage house, 96 Charles Street was purchased by the city in 1855 and converted to a firehouse for Columbian No. 14. Hook and Ladder Company No. 5 occupied the firehouse from 1865 to 1975. Today the building houses a contemporary art gallery and two large residential duplexes.
In Memoriam
The following members from Ladder 5 and Battalion 2 made the supreme sacrifice on September 11th, 2001:
LADDER 5 Lt. Mike Warchola Lt. Vincent Giamonna Lou Arena Andy Brunn Greg Saucedo Paul Keating Tommy Hannafin John Santore
BATTALION 2 BC. William McGovern BC. Richard Prunty FF. Fautino Apostol, Jr.
Pictured here are the 11 men of Ladder 5 and Batralion 2 who lost their lives at the World Trade Center on 9/11.
If you enjoyed this story about Ginger the fire dog, click here to read a true tale about another Ginger — the fire cat of the Lower East Side.
Many newspapers took photos of Olaf the Viking cat upon his ship’s arrival in Brooklyn. Here he is with Fourth Mate Hjalmar Larson.
“A mascot there was who almost wasn’t
But he has the life he almost hasn’t.
And the fact is this:
Though he’s somewhat wizened,
Though he almost isn’t—
He is.” — Angus MacGregor, Hartford Courant, October 12, 1930
An old maritime superstition was that if a mascot was lost at sea, a member of the crew would be lost shortly thereafter. Even worse, a lost mascot on a maiden voyage spelled constant disaster for the ship in the future. That is why when Olaf the cat fell overboard on the Sud Americano’s maiden voyage from Kiel, Germany, to Brooklyn, the captain and crew did not hesitate to attempt a daring rescue.
Olaf was described in The New York Times as a “blond Viking” with “tramp traits” who attached himself to the sailors of the South American liner, Sud Americano. The twin-screw steamer was built in Kiel, and was scheduled to go into service as an express passenger and freight liner out of Brooklyn to Rio de Jeneiro, Montevideo and Buenas Aires. Sud Americano and its sister ship, Sud Expresso, were operated by Garcia & Diaz, of Pier 44 in Red Hook, Brooklyn.
Refusing to be left behind on the ship’s maiden voyage to New York, the orange-striped tabby cat reportedly eliminated his competition—a ship mascot parrot named Juan—and signed on as the new official mascot of the Sud Americano. For the next few days, Ofaf prowled all over the boat, inspecting the saloons and staterooms, introducing himself to the men in the engine room, and basically expressing his appreciation of new role in general.
On the morning of July 2, 1929, when the ship was about 800 miles east of New York, Olaf was sunning himself on the foredeck when he was swept overboard by a heavy swell. According to the August 1929 issue of The Lookout, which was published by Seaman’s Church Institute of New York, the watchman saw Olaf get carried out to sea and immediately cried out, “Cat overboard!” Captain Bjor Boettger asked if it was the ship’s cat and ordered an immediate rescue.
First he telegraphed to the engine room for “stop” and “slow astern.” Then he instructed Chief Officer S. Anderson and six oarsmen to man the after lifeboat. The men, including Fourth Mate Hjalmar Larson, lowered the lifeboat in record time and pulled at the oars hard against the heavy seas, turning the boat toward the small dark object bobbing up and down in the waves.
Despite the swells, Olaf swam courageously for about 15 minutes as one would expect a seafaring cat to do, until one of the sailors scooped him up by the end of an oar. Upon returning the waterlogged Olaf to the ship, two “hefty Norwegian sailors,” under the direction of the Officer T. Anderson, started pumping air into his lungs and salt water out, following instructions for humans in the ship’s first-aid manual.
After resuscitating the cat, the sailors wrapped Olaf in a blanket and brought him to the engine room to dry out. Later that night, the crew threw a large party on the ship to celebrate the heroic rescue.
The Dutch established the village of Red Hook (Roode Hoek) in 1636, making it one of the earliest areas in Brooklyn to be settled. The area was named for its red clay soil and the hook shape of its peninsular corner that projects into the East River. By the 1850s, Red Hook was one of the busiest ports in the country.
Several days after the rescue, the Sud Americano steamed up to Pier 44 at the foot of Conover Street, with Olaf reportedly standing in the bow, head and tail held high, purring. When Manuel Diaz of Garcia & Diaz heard about the rescue, he said the Spanish Humane Society would undoubtedly award medals to the sailors who rescued him.
Many New York and Associated Press reporters came to interview Olaf, take his picture, and offer praise for him and his fellow officers. As a reporter for the Oakland Tribune (California) wrote, “We shall have to thank Olaf for new proof that men are interested in things which are not sensational and sordid. The sailors who went to the rescue and the captain who turned the ship back are surely other fellows worth knowing. Most of us would like to sail with that bunch.”
Rescue Prepares Crew for Lifeboat Race
Two months after Olaf’s rescue, the crew of the Sud Americano took part in the third annual international lifeboat race on the Hudson River. The race was sponsored by the Neptune Association, an organization of shipmasters and dock officers who recognized the need for better lifeboat skills for rescue and emergency work at sea.
On September 2, 1929, crowds of people lined up from 86th Street to 126th Street to watch the crews from various passenger ships compete in the two-mile race. As reported in The New York Times, the Garcia and Diaz lifeboat crew from the new motor freighter Sud Americano pulled to victory against seven competitors, with a winning time of 17 minutes and 11 seconds.
On September 6, William H. Todd of the Todd Shipyards Corporation presented the Todd lifeboat racing trophy to the crew at a luncheon aboard the ship at Pier 44. Captain C.A. McAllister, president of the American Bureau of Shipping and referee, inferred that the crew may have won because they were all under the age of 30 and “they were Norsemen whose ancestors were rowing boats while some of ours were shooting bows and arrows.”
Other news articles reported that the crew cheated by spreading grease on the bottom of the boat. But maybe the crew of the Sud Americano won simply because they had recent lifeboat practice with Olaf.
Here are the men of the Sud Americano during their winning lifeboat race on the Hudson River.
Olaf with Captain Bjor Boettger (left) in Brooklyn.
About a year after the rescue, a reporter from the Hartford Courant asked Captain Boettger why he thought his ship was having such good luck with the weather and the crew. The captain reached under the mess table and grabbed Olaf for the reporter to see. “Olaf is the plan this ship sails under,” he said. “We saved Olaf’s life, and he’s bringing us good luck in exchange.”
The Sud Americano Meets German Sub U-558 in 1941
Shortly after the Sud Americano went into service, she and her sister ship were returned to their builders in Kiel for failure to reach the contracted speed. The ship was renamed Schleswig and some time later, was under charter to the Blue Star Line of London as Yakima Star. In 1934 she was re-engined and lengthened; her two funnels were replaced by a single one, and she renamed Weser for Norddeutscher Lloyd, Bremen.
In October 1940 she was captured while attempting to run the British blockade by HMCS Prince Robert. The Weser was taken over by the Ministry of War Transport, handed over to Merchant Marine Ltd, Ottawa, and renamed Vancouver Island . This was to be her last name.
On October 15, 1941, Vancouver Island was torpedoed by German submarine U-588 under the command of Günther Krech. The ship sank in the North Atlantic west of Ireland. On 31 October, a lifeboat with the bodies of two officers from the ship was found by a British warship. Master Eric Lacey Roper, 64 crew members, eight gunners, and 32 passengers were lost. There was no mention of a mascot.
In my last post about old New York, I wrote about a Newfoundland who almost lost his life while taking part in a swimming race from Randall’s Island to the Harlem Beach Bathing Pavilion in July 1884. Apparently, the manager of the Harlem beach, Frederick Kenyon, wasn’t fazed by this close call on the East River.
Three weeks later, he invited people to let their goats compete in a similar swimming race. The prizes included a mammoth cabbage, large turnip, a double-sheet circus poster, and a tomato can.
On August 10, 1884, 11 goat owners led their goats to a float on the East River at 116th Street, where they were to be thrown into the water. The owners struggled quite a bit as the goats butted and kicked and flat-out refused to get into the water.
During all this commotion, a man came rushing out to the float, brandishing a large silver shield. He told the goat owners to desist in the name of Henry Bergh and the law. He then threatened to arrest the first person who tried to throw a goat into the water.
The goat owners just laughed at him. But then four more men arrived on the scene and the goats were taken away from the water.
Henry Bergh’s impassioned accounts of the horrors inflicted on animals convinced the state legislature to pass the charter incorporating the ASPCA on April 10, 1866.
One of the goat owners, a Mr. James Gordon, was not happy that the swimming race was canceled. “By thunder, I’ll sue Henry Bergh for damages,” he told a New York Times reporter.
“I bought my goat last week and paid 50 cents for it – a good price, too. I put it in my garden, and it ate up all my flowers and plants and paint and oyster shells and the nails out of my house, besides all the corn I gave it. Now, when I come here to get the benefit of my outlay, Mr. Henry Bergh steps in and says he shan’t go in the water. What the devil does the goat care? He can’t think or do anything but eat and butt, and would just as soon swim as not.”
After the main attractions were led away, some of the crowd that had gathered stayed to watch a race for “fat men” and a tub race. You can’t make this stuff up.
On July 18, 1884, a swimming race for dogs took place at the Harlem Beach Bathing Pavilion – also known as the Harlem Beach Baths – located on New York’s East River at the foot of East 116th Street. Frederick Kenyon, the manager of the beach, had arranged the event to attract crowds and make money. The races were open to Newfoundlands, water spaniels, and mongrels for a 50-cent entrance fee.
Around 3 p.m., the dogs began to arrive by land or by boat from up or down the East River. The plan was to have the dogs race from Randall’s Island, which was across the river, and back to the goal – a beer keg float with a flag – located off the docks of the Harlem Beach. The race was refereed by Clarence Lipman.
In 1855, the City of New York acquired three separate land masses between Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx: Randall’s Island, named after its previous owner Jonathan Randal; Ward’s Island, named after Jasper and Bartholomew Ward and a marsh called Sunken Meadows. Over the years, the debris from construction projects filled in the space between the three islands. This 1948 shows the islands before they merged.
The first heat was for three of the Newfoundlands: two dogs named Jumbo, one owned by William Bernard and other by Rudolph Schnitzer, and Nero, owned by Peter Bernard. The dogs’ owners took them across the East River to the starting place at Randall’s Island in rowboats.
The starter, James Gordon, cried, “Ready, Go!” and fired a revolver. Each owner threw his dog into the East River. Then each man called his dog from the rowboats, expecting the dogs to follow their calls. A flotilla of about 100 rowboats followed along.
The two Jumbos followed the boats, but Nero looked at his owner in the receding boat, turned around, and casually swam back to shore on Randall’s Island. He shook himself off, “gazed contemptuously at the two swimming dogs,” and lay down in the sun. Wise dog.
Just as the dogs got midway, the schooner Isaac N. Kerlin, being moved by the tug Cornelia, bore down upon them. The small rowboats scurried out of the way as hundreds of onlookers shouted out. Poor Jumbo Bernard was right in the path of the ship. The dog howled and took desperate strokes to get out of the way.
The Isaac N. Kerlin was built at Leesburg, NJ, in 1883. On February 16, 1901, the ship was lost at sea, but all hands were saved by the St. Quentin. At the time, the ship was traveling from Jacksonville, Fl, to Baltimore with a cargo of lumber.
The 348-ton schooner missed his head by a foot, and the swirl of water along the keel swung his body to the side. People started to shout in joy, but then they saw that the dog was now in the path of the tug. Once again, the Newfoundland just missed getting hit. He finally made it to the float, and was announced the winner with a time of 6:00 minutes.
The next heat of Newfoundlands was won by Jack, owned by W.P. Armstrong, in 5:00 minutes, and the third by Lulu, owned by Peter Hogan, in 5:30. The three winners swam a final heat, which Lulu won in just over 5 minutes.
The water spaniels included Rover, Nell, Flora, Jack, and Fannie. Nell got to the float first in 4:30 but was disqualified because her owner touched her after she was in the water, so Flora was declared the winner.
The mixed class included a bloodhound, a Gordon setter, a bulldog, a spaniel, a staghound, one or two mastiffs, and a great variety of mutts. The bulldog, Music, won the race, and the setter, Jack, came in second.
All the winning dogs received handsome collars.
In the 19th century, Randall’s Island was the site of the New York House of Refuge, a reform school completed in 1854 for juvenile delinquents. This wood engraving represents the reformatory in 1855.
The Swimming Baths and Floating Baths of New York City
During the 19th century, many New York City children escaped the heat by swimming in the Hudson or East rivers—they’d either jump off the piers or use enclosed swimming areas called “floating baths.”
Swimming in the river was legal, but drownings occurred regularly, and people contracted diseases like polio and typhoid that were transmitted by raw sewage dumped directly into the rivers.
Bath houses, the predecessor of the swimming pool, were initially used for cleansing and therapeutic purposes. They became more geared towards recreation over the years. Pictured here is one of many bath houses on the East River in the 19th century.
The city’s first free public floating baths appeared in the Hudson and East Rivers in 1870, and by 1890 there were about 15 such facilities. The baths floated on pontoons and were 95 feet long and 60 feet wide, divided into two sections (one for adults and one for children).
The depth of the water was 4 ½ feet in the adult section and 2 ½ feet in the children’s section. The baths were open from late June or early July to early October.
In 1895 the New York State legislature passed a law requiring free bathhouses in cities with populations of 50,000 or more. The state, along with then-Mayor William L. Strong, believed it was necessary to provide bathing facilities for “the great unwashed,” or in other words, families in overcrowded tenements. The bathing facilities were primarily for cleansing and therapeutic purposes, but they were also used for recreation when the weather became hot and unbearable.
Floating baths, like this one in 1905, existed in New York from at least the early 19th century. For tenement dwellers, they were a practical alternative to bathing in a dish pan, the kitchen sink, or portable tub. Source: Maggie Land Blanck.
The Demise of the Harlem Beach Baths
On September 8, 1886, Frederick Kenyon was in the Harlem Court on charges of assaulting some of the female bathers. According to reports, the proprietor of the baths, 21-year-old Louis Fletcher, had been having sexual relations with numerous under-age girls who came to swim at the beach.
The incidents came to light when an Officer Charles Knolls of the New York Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children paid a visit to 15-year-old Ruth Levy, who was in prison because her mother objected to her frequent visits to the Harlem Beach Baths and had thus had her committed to the courts.
Ruth told the officer that there was a papered-over door that led from the Ladies Toilet of the Bathing Pavilion to Fletcher’s office. Ruth claimed to have seen many girls go through this door, and said Fletcher had sexually assaulted girls while Kenyon was in the room.
On September 19, 1886, the New York Herald reported that the Harlem Beach Baths were still open for swimming and water temperatures were 75 degrees. But less than one month later, on October 8, 1886, a fire destroyed the baths and the pavilion along with over $50,000 worth of property along the East River from 116th to 117th streets.
On September 19, 1886, the New York Herald reported that the Harlem Beach Baths were still open for swimming and water temperatures were 75 degrees. But less than one month later, on October 8, 1886, a fire destroyed the baths and the pavilion along with over $50,000 worth of property along the East River from 116th to 117th streets.
A fire in October 1886 destroyed all of the buildings owned by Charles Vandervoort and William G. Tucker
Much of the property was owned by Charles M. Vandervoort and William G. Tucker, including several small frame buildings, a two-story frame factory that made paints, oils and cement; a three-story brick building that was used for storing coal and the manufacture of chemicals, varnishes, and brewers’ supplies; and a three-story brick building used by H.C. Campbell as a planing mill and a sash, blind and molding factory.
After the fire, there were still a few references to the Harlem Beach Baths. In October 1887, two brothers, John C. and Patrick Cunningham, were “blown to pieces” when a boiler for a steam launch, Katy, exploded. According to an October 24 issue of The Sun, the bodies of the brothers, who worked for the Standard Gas Light Company, were placed on the docks of the Harlem Beach Baths. A personal ad in the New York Herald on July 14, 1889, also makes reference to the Harlem Beach Baths, but the message is cryptic.
In 1897, a dock was built at the foot of 116th St. and a ferry established to Ward’s Island, where the state had built the Manhattan State Hospital for the Insane, shown here.
In 1903, the Washburn Wire Company of New York occupied 117th to 118th streets on the East River — just one block from where the baths were. The factory, which comprised six buildings, made wire products like springs, piano strings and fence wire.
In 1917, the factory was working on a large order from the U.S. government when a disastrous fire broke out in three places. The manager, Daniel C. Turner, told police he suspected that one or more of the 25 German or 200 Austrian workers started the blazes. Two of the buildings survived the fire, and the factory reportedly stayed in business until 1976.
If you enjoyed this dog tale, you may enjoy reading about another race that took place three weeks later at the same location; this race featured goats.
Today, most of Randall’s Island serves as a city park with recreational and sports fatalities constructed by the Randall’s Island Sports Foundation. The island has more than 500 acres are composed of baseball diamonds, soccer fields, tennis courts and other sports complexes.
For over three decades, the Washburn Wire Factory sat derelict and decaying. Today, the site houses the East River Plaza, a multi-level 500,000 square foot retail center that spans three city blocks on six acres adjacent to the FDR Drive between 116th and 119th Streets. The shopping center is home to Costco, Target, Best Buy, Marshalls, Old Navy, PetSmart, Bob’s Discount Furniture, and more.
Everyone knows that despite its nine lives, curiosity kills the cat. For the sea-faring cats in this story, it was curiosity and a war-time ban on ship whistles that left them stranded on the Chelsea Piers ship terminal during WWI and WWII. WWI: Fierce Marine Cats Haunt the Chelsea Piers
During World War I and World War II, hundreds of cats from all over the world were left stranded on the Chelsea Piers when the ships they had stowed away on left without them.
On January 21, 1917, a New York Times reporter stopped by Pier 58 to interview veteran night watchman Sam Smithers about a reported clowder of cats that had taken over the piers. Cats of all nations had been gathering on the piers since the beginning of World War I, most of them were refugees who had escaped from various steamships that were taking part in the war effort.
The RMS Olympic arriving at Chelsea Piers in 1911.
The cats prowled in bands of 15 or 20, and were living on bones, dried prunes, and raw rubber (which the sailors said enabled them to spring from pier to pier at night in search of prey). Their wild meows and baleful looks kept many a watchman awake at night.
According to Smithers, the leader of this pack was a large, rough-looking cat with red fur and large yellow eyes with red pupils that glared like port lights at sea. The tom cat was known as Tai-Wan, because he had apparently arrived at Pier 59 by the Jumpsejee Jeegeeboy from Wu-Wu-Wu on the Yangtze.
“Look at them waiting to see where I hide my bit of supper so that one of them can pinch it when my back is turned,” Smithers said as about 20 cats sat watching his every move. The watchman said he regretted saving Tai-Wan’s life with a pole when the feline fell into the water while getting off his ship. “Since then he haunts me at night, and if I have to drop off to have a snooze in the corner, he sticks his claws into my legs or rubs his wiry whiskers against my face.”
WWII: War Ban on Ship’s Horns Strands Cats on Chelsea Piers
During World War II, New York Harbor was the busiest port in the world, with 39 active shipyards and750 of 1,800 existing docks, piers, and wharves classified as active. According to the New York Historical Society, at the height of the war, a ship left the New York Harbor every 15 minutes. The Chelsea Piers (Piers 53 to 62, located between 17th and 22nd streets) served as a major embarkation point for troop carriers that took American servicemen overseas.
According to The New York Times, a war-time ban on ship whistles stranded about 50 international maritime mascots on the Chelsea Piers.
It’s important to know that many of these troop carriers, or troopships, were originally passenger liners that were forced out of service and turned over to the Army and Navy. Prior to the war, the passenger ship horns would blast thirty minutes before the gangplank was lowered, 15 minutes later, and then five minutes before the lines were cast off and the ship headed out into the river. These blasts would give stowaway cats that were perhaps checking out the restaurants opposite the piers on 11th Avenue enough time to return to the pier and sneak back on board their ship via the lower gangplank.
During the war, however, the horn blasts were banned, probably so city residents would not confuse them with air-raid sirens. Without the warning blasts, the cats missed their passage. Hence, on March 13, 1942, when another Times reporter visited the piers, about 50 refugee cats had been left to roam the piers, just as their ancestors had done 25 years before.
On this particular day, Lewis J. Gavan (no relation of mine) said he was taking care of a litter of kittens that had been born at the piers. The mother cat, a black and white short-haired cat, had been carried off by a Norwegian sailor who said he was taking her to be a mascot for a ship sailing for the South Seas.
Sailors and cats have a special relationship that dates back thousands of years. It was common for crews to adopt cats from foreign lands to serve as souvenirs as well as reminders of their pets at home. Here, a sailor from the HMS Exeter of the Royal Navy holds Pincher, the ship’s cat and mascot. Photograph by Harold Tomlin, Daily Herald (London), February 15, 1940.
Gavan told the reporter he bought milk for the kittens in the daytime, and at night, Peter Hoey, a roundsman, chopped up chicken liver for them. Hoey also gathered bits of food from the galleys of the freighters for the other hungry cats on the prowl.
Ben Fidd, a retired veteran pier watchman, told the Times reporter that the cats had come from all over the world, including China, Persia, Malta, and Australia. Fidd had some fun with the reporter, and told him that two or three of the cats were from Egypt and meowed in Arabic, and two other felines from Ireland had a Gaelic accent.
Hoey said it was a big job at night keeping the peace between the refugee cats and the freighter mascot cats. Any time one of the marooned cats would sneak on board a freighter, the fighting would start and the fur would fly.
Gavan predicted that by the end of the war, there would be at least 100 cats stranded on Chelsea Piers.
I have a feeling this story does not have a happy ending, so I’ll let the reader come to his or her own conclusion regarding the fate of these seafaring orphan cats.
