Perfect Pets
Dr. Brooks Madden was one of the most brilliant men in the burgeoning field of genetic engineering. When he initially began his research in this controversial field, he had a fiery ambition to make great contributions to humankind. He idealistically envisioned a Utopian world where cancer, heart disease, ALS, Alzheimer's and other serious and life-threatening illnesses could be programmed out of a fetus before he or she ever saw the light of day. As the years passed, however, much of his ardor cooled. Brooks eventually grew weary of the ongoing battles with government funding agencies, fundamentalist religious groups and paranoid doomsayers who saw Armageddon in every technological or scientific breakthrough.
It was Brooks' wife, Patrice, who unknowingly convinced him that his greatest opportunities lie in the private sector.
"I know of several former colleagues who became successful in the food industry," he said after announcing his decision to go into business for himself, "but I'm not interested in developing a strawberry that won't go moldy two days after it's picked or improving the yield of a certain variety of orange tree."
"Then what will you do?"
Brooks grinned mischievously but remained silent as he watched his wife pet Señorita, her two-year-old toy Chihuahua.
"Well? Are you going to answer my question or just sit there looking like the cat that ate the canary?" she asked.
"Do you have any idea how much money Americans spend on their pets each year?"
Patrice stared at her husband. What was he getting at?
"Are you going to develop pet foods?"
"No, I'm going to breed pets themselves."
"You've got to be joking!" his wife exclaimed with disbelief. "With all your advanced degrees, you're going to raise dogs?"
"Actually, I want to start with cats."
"Cats? Why would you want to breed cats when people can go down to an animal shelter or look in any local newspaper and find cats being given away for free?"
"Ah! But my cats wouldn't be like the litters of kittens the Humane Society takes in. I'm going to develop a whole new breed of cat, one that won't shed."
Over the next five years, Brooks and Patrice Madden lived off their savings since, with his new genetically engineered breed of cat still in development, the scientist had no income. Not long after the first litters of non-shedding kittens were born, though, the money began to trickle in. When word of Madden's new breed spread, the demand for the cats grew as did the company's profits. Of course, in a capitalistic society, profits must continue to rise. Hence, Perfect Pets, the name given to Brooks' line of genetically altered felines, soon sought to expand its product line.
"If this company is to continue to grow and reward its stockholders, we must develop new breeds," Brooks told the company's board of directors at the quarterly board meeting. "I expect we can develop non-shedding dogs in half the time it took to perfect our cats. In fact, I've already hired a team of genetic scientists who are working on collies, German shepherds, Labradors and Irish setters. That should make a lot of potential dog owners happy."
The members of the board were not interested in the happiness of pet owners, however. They were businessmen, and they thought only in terms of the bottom line. They were all too aware that several other companies were also getting into the non-shedding cat market; and they assumed, as did Brooks himself, that these competitors had also turned their attention to the dog market.
"Have you anything else on the horizon?" one director asked.
"As a matter of fact, I'm working on a little project of my own," Brooks continued, whetting the directors' curiosity. "Did you ever notice that almost everyone loves kittens? And why not? They're soft, cuddly and, most importantly, small. Once the cute little kittens grow up, though, many people lose interest in them. I've had excellent results in an experiment that will produce cats that, when fully grown, will not be much larger than hamsters."
The directors looked at one another, nodded their heads and smiled.
* * *
Perfect Pets' miniature cats created a sensation as great as that of the hula hoop in the Fifties and Beatlemania in the Sixties. People loved the small, furry animals so much that most families kept not one or two, but five or six as pets. Sales were so high that within two years of the introduction of its first miniature cat, Perfect Pets was catapulted onto the list of Fortune 100 companies.
As fate would have it, it was at the height of the miniature cat craze that Perfect Pets began receiving letters and phone calls expressing customers' growing dissatisfaction with the animals. Apparently, with each succeeding generation the small cats grew progressively larger. The cats' physiology, it seems, compensated for the genetic alteration by producing more growth hormones.
Eventually, not only did Perfect Pets suffer an irreversible financial blow and have to file for bankruptcy, but it was also ordered by the courts to deal with the huge numbers of unwanted cats that it had bred. Humane societies and private animal shelters did what they could to find homes for the animals, but these organizations could only place a small fraction of the total.
Brooks, despondent over the loss of his business, did not feel particularly compassionate toward the animals. He callously ordered them all to be put to sleep.
"We have a problem," his assistant announced as the CEO of Perfect Pets was attempting to tie up the loose ends of his bankrupt company.
"What is it, now?"
"We can't euthanize the cats."
"Don't tell me it's those pain-in-the-ass animal rights activists again."
"No. We gave the shots to several of the cats, but for some unknown reason, the poison had no effect on them."
"Give them a higher dosage."
"We did. We gave them each enough poison to kill an elephant, and the cats just got up and walked away."
"Then drown them or electrocute them, if necessary," Brooks shouted angrily. "Just get rid of the damned things!"
"I can't do that," the assistant defiantly declared. "It's inhumane, and we would be guilty of animal cruelty. We would be facing possible lawsuits and even criminal charges."
"Who cares? The company is going down the tubes anyway."
"Maybe not. These cats have developed an incredible resistance to disease and now poison."
"Great! No one wants the cats, and we can't get rid of them."
"Don't you get it? Just think of the implications if you could duplicate this immunity in people."
Dr. Madden's spirits immediately lifted.
"Go put together a report. I want to show your findings to some friends of mine who own a biotech lab. Perhaps Perfect Pets can merge with it and form a new company."
* * *
The offspring of the genetically engineered cats amazed scientists worldwide. They were immune not only to disease and poisons but also to deadly gases and electricity. When they suffered any injury, their cuts and lacerations healed with astonishing rapidity. The cats were virtually indestructible! Unfortunately, they still continued to produce litters of kittens that would grow to nearly double the size of their parents. Before mankind realized the threat the animals posed, the new breed of cat—originally the size of gerbils—had grown to the size of Bengal tigers.
Naturally, these large cats were not suitable as family pets. At first, they were welcomed at zoos and wildlife preserves, but over time there were far too many of them to accommodate. And since there was no way, humane or otherwise, to destroy the animals, special enclosures had to be built to house them. Although born domestic, the cats quickly developed the survival instincts of their feral forebears, and most managed to break free of their captivity.
When the first person was mauled by an escaped giant feline, the story made front-page news in every newspaper across the country. Still, few people feared the incident would be repeated. As they looked lovingly at their own housecats, they were certain the attack was an isolated incident; but they were wrong. Cats are, after all, carnivorous creatures, hunters by nature. And with the size of the latest generation of Perfect Pets offspring nearing that of the prehistoric saber tooth tiger, it was no longer mice, chipmunks and voles that had to fear for their lives.
* * *
The secret service agent led Brooks to the president's office, safely hidden in a series of bunkers nearly half a mile beneath the White House.
"Dr. Madden is here, sir," the agent announced as he opened the three-inch-thick steel door.
Brooks gaped when he saw the appearance of the room's lone occupant. President Ward Rushmond had been a handsome, forty-eight-year-old man, a former Green Beret, with the physique of a professional athlete. Now he looked old and broken, both physically and emotionally.
"So, you're the one who's to blame for this catastrophe!" the president cried.
"The experiment got a little out of hand," Brooks admitted lamely.
"A little out of hand?" the president echoed, his voice rising to a near-hysteric level. "A fifteen-foot-high cat ate the first lady, right after it devoured the vice president and the secretary of state. You call that a little out of hand?"
Brooks put his head down and stared at his upturned palms, as though—like Lady Macbeth—he could see the blood stains on them.
"I'm sorry."
"There were two million deaths worldwide this week alone, and all you can say is you're sorry. I want much more than an apology, Doctor. I want you to tell me how we can destroy those monsters."
"Honestly, Mr. President, I don't know how. I've been trying to figure that out ever since the growth hormones of the breed went haywire."
"It's funny. People used to believe that the military and the political leaders would destroy the world. In the Sixties, many Americans built shelters in their basements in case an atomic bomb was dropped. Who knew that their great-grandchildren would have to hide in underground shelters from a bunch of oversized housecats?"
"They were meant to be the perfect pets: small, cuddly and loveable. It isn't my fault that Mother Nature drastically changed the blueprints."
"It isn't? Then whose fault is it? You tinkered with DNA. Didn't you ever consider that the result could be disastrous?"
"With all due respect, sir, I don't believe pointing the finger and dredging up the past is very productive. We should ...."
Brooks was interrupted when a four-star general burst through the door.
"Mr. President, several cats got into the United Nations Building," the general announced. "There are reports of dead delegates in the Security Council Chamber."
"Who would have believed that some of the most powerful diplomats in the world could be reduced to the level of cat kibble," the president repined and then directed his impotent fury at Brooks. "Damn you and all your fellow irresponsible scientists!"
There was nothing Dr. Madden could say, no way he could undo the harm he had done.
President Rushmond looked at the geneticist with disgust. The last hope for mankind had not been very helpful.
"Agent Snyder will show you out."
"That's inadvisable, sir," the general objected. "There's nowhere for him to go. Anyone who leaves the safety of this bunker will be killed. The number of cats is growing at an alarming rate."
"And what about the people in the shelters? What will they do when they've exhausted their food and water supplies?"
The general shook his head.
"As I see it," he said hesitantly, "there's only one course of action left to us."
"And what is that?" the president asked eagerly.
"Nuclear weapons. I've gotten in touch with heads of state in Europe, Asia, Africa and South America as well as our neighbors in Central America—those that have managed to get to secure shelters, that is. It seems that despite the various disarmament agreements down through the years, there are still quite a few warheads across the globe."
The president snickered at the irony of it all.
"So, everyone is finally admitting what we've known all along. But isn't this a rather drastic remedy? We'll destroy the surface of the planet. It will no longer be able to support life."
"Not now, anyway," the general agreed, "and not for a good many generations to come. But eventually, the radiation will return to a safe level, and our descendants can create a new world up there. Until then, we'll be safe down here. The bunkers are well equipped and self-sustaining."
"But the people up there, even those in municipal shelters, won't survive the nuclear fallout."
"No, sir, but in all probability they won't survive the cats either."
The president shook his head.
"I can't allow that. Billions of people will die worldwide. You'll just have to come up with another solution."
The general turned away and sighed.
"I'm afraid the decision is not yours to make. The missiles are already on their way."
President Rushmond knew there were approximately two hundred men, women and children who had found refuge in the underground complex beneath the nation's capital. There were similar bunkers beneath New York, Chicago and other major American cities. He wondered how many would be safe in England, Germany, Russia, China and Japan. Perhaps in the more developed nations of the world, several thousand would survive in all. But what about in third-world countries? How many people would still be alive to reproduce and plant the seeds of the future generations who would reclaim the Earth's surface?
"Maybe this is God's will," the president declared, seeking refuge in his faith. "A new world without the problems of the old one. Maybe he will just reach out his hand, wipe the slate clean and start all over again."
The general, an atheist, saw no divine power at work. The cats that overran the world were created by a scientist—a mere mortal man—as were the weapons that would hopefully destroy them.
"How long will it be?" the president asked with weary resignation.
"The first bombs will fall in about five minutes."
"Well, then, I'm going to go to my daughter. She's all the family I have left. With the world coming to an end above us, I think we should all be with our families, don't you?"
* * *
Laynie Rushmond, the six-year-old daughter of the President of the United States, was playing with her dolls when she heard her father enter the next room.
"Laynie?" he called to her.
The little girl quickly hid Beau and Belle, her two Perfect Pets miniature cats, in the bottom of her closet. Her father had not wanted her to keep the animals, so she smuggled them down to the bunker in her backpack and kept them hidden away.
"There's my little girl," Ward said as he entered his daughter's bedroom.
Just as he took the child into his arms, President Rushmond heard a distant rumbling overhead. Tears came to his eyes. Thousands of years of human history had just been destroyed.
At least my little girl is safe, he thought selfishly.
Meanwhile, in the bottom of Laynie's closet, Belle was giving birth to her first litter of kittens.
Just when I thought Salem couldn't possibly be a bigger pain in the ass!
