Debby rides with Bo and Samson and me to the animal sanctuary. We bump over the unpaved lane and pull up to the gate in a chainlink fence. A half dozen dogs rush to the ends of their kennel runs to greet us. In the yard, a volunteer is wrapping a just-bathed Basset Hound in a beach towel. A woman in jeans comes to help us, calling out for Jennifer, the “cat person.” Jennifer is a tall, bulky woman with a snaggle-toothed smile. The cat houses are on the other side of the dirt lane, beyond another chain-link gate. It looks like a bungalow colony, except that the cottages are connected by a maze of grassy pens. We lug the cat carriers into the compound. Samson is to go in a cage in the AIDS house, at first, because of his runny nose. Jennifer deftly fills a small litter pan, water bowl and food dish, talking nonstop. She apologizes for the heat; the AC isn’t working well. It is, in fact, a hundred degrees in this cottage. I scoop Samson out of the carrier. He’s hot and limp, still zonked by the tranquilizer I gave him three hours ago. He goes docilely into the roomy cage and curls up in a corner, indifferent to the heat and the group of curious house-mates milling about. The room is furnished with perches and cat paraphernalia, and a flap leading to the fenced yard. Oblivious to the heat, Jennifer introduces us to each cat, describes its personality and health history. I am trying not to sob aloud; tears are streaming down my sweaty face. Next, we carry Bo to the Leukemia house. Here the AC is working. The room is more crowded with gregarious cats. I set the carrier on the floor and unzip it; Bo hunkers down inside. A half grown kitten sticks its head in, trying to start a conversation. A bear of a gray shorthair stands on his hind legs on a perch, kneading my shoulder for attention, as Jennifer relates the biographies of Bo’s house-mates. We leave Bo to decide on his own when to emerge from the safety of the carrier. Finally, we tour the house for healthy cats, passing a coop of chickens and the private kennels of two cats who don’t subscribe to the litter box. Inside, Jennifer fondles a handsome tri-color who is a “biter” from an abusive home. “I’ve been working with her for six months,” Jennifer says, “And she’s gotten much better.” The cat is biting the petting hand, but it’s a love bite, a soft toothy greeting. At last, there’s nothing left to do but climb back in the car and drive away. A couple in an SUV has arrived to visit the dogs. Maybe they will adopt the cute Pit Bull, or the frisky Lab mix. I try to fix firmly in my mind the image of the cats’ grassy play yards, strewn with toys. It’s time to go.