About 200 feral cats roam Disneyland, where they help control rodents.
Spend enough time at Disneyland and you’ll see them. Maybe you’ll spot one snoozing in the bushes near the Jungle Cruise or observing you warily as you ride the tram, but one thing is certain: However many cats you see, there are more out of sight.
About 200 feral cats roam the Happiest Place on Earth, where they earn their keep by helping to control the rodent population. The felines were first seen not long after Disneyland opened in 1955, when they took up residence in Sleeping Beauty Castle, and it soon became evident that keeping them around had more advantages than trying to escort them off the premises.
The mutually beneficial alliance even includes permanent feeding stations for the cats, as well as spaying or neutering and vaccinations. Though not official cast members, these adept hunters — who mostly come out at night — have earned a devoted following of their own. There are websites, Instagram feeds, and YouTube videos devoted to them. They’re not quite as popular as the actual rides at Disneyland, obviously, but for cat-lovers, they’re an attraction all their own.
Of course, cat-lovers are an attraction unto themselves.
This is Scott, from the dog park. You may know me as Jadie and Charlie’s poop scooper. But, according to YOUR poop scooper, I’m now your uncle, too.
You see, recently, your dad called and said he’d entered you in The American Rescue Dog Show, a Disney program. Think the Westminster Kennel Club for strays.
Your dad said that, if you were picked for the show, he couldn’t attend because he was not vaccinated. He asked if I could take his place as your “wrangler” and walk you before judges. He wanted to place you in the “Best in Ears” category.
I immediately said yes. I’ve known you for months, and the cause is unimpeachable: Each pup and human to win their made-up category — Best in Belly Rubs, Best in Snoring, Best in Wiggling, etc. — would earn a $10,000 contribution to the shelter of their choice. And every pup to even make it onto the show would score a $500 rescue donation.
But that’s only half the reason I agreed. The other half was that I didn’t think you’d make it onto the show.
Don’t get me wrong, Dodge. You are a year-old miracle, 70 pounds of Shepherd-mix exuberance that matched Jadie’s at six minths. And your ears make Prince Charles look like he had his pruned. But this was a national show; I figured you would be ignored like most Tinseltown dreamers.
Wrong.
The producers called in early April. You were in! Oh, and the show would tape in 10 days.
So we began our “wrangling.” If you were wondering why we walked through an off-leash dog park on-leash, that’s why. If you were wondering why you practiced jumping into a creamsicle Fiat, that’s why. If you were wondering why I spent a week and a half cooing “Ear of the tiger, eye of the puppy” while I massaged your fur lobes, that’s why.
As you hopefully don’t recall, you were terrified the day of the show. You had never been out of dad’s charge. The doggie green room on the Warner Bros. lot was a spacious kennel, with plenty of room for both of us: a bed and water for you and a folding chair for me. Nonetheless, you were petrified.
When they closed the gate of our pen and we sat, you tucked your head between my knees. And when you get scared, bud, your ears become AERODYNAMIC. I could barely see them. I guess even a deluxe kennel is still a cage, and that was probably the last thing you wanted to see.
So we moved down to the cot, and I swear this is true: We locked eyes for a full second, maybe a second and a half. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we came to a meeting of the minds. I think we realized: ‘We’re in this crate. The humans want a show. They want to see second chances lived right. That fortune can follow fortitude. That you regret NOT taking a chance more than the chance itself. So let’s do this goddamn thing.’
And we wrestled and fetched and asked Hoozagoodboy? and answered I Am! in our cage for 30 minutes. You waited for me to go to hair and wardrobe, then we wrangled another half hour. You dandered the jacket and slobbered the makeup and neither of us cared. By the time producers fetched us, you were on your back, grinning, paws asplay. You could have entered the belly rub race.
And we were off. The set was another strange first for you: crowds, lights, celebrity vets in sequins, a live pig (it was Disney) — and a half-dozen pups with wild observatory flappers.
But you were long done being scared. By the time cameras rolled, you were cloud busting: yipping, twirling, trying to make time with the cute pit rescue Bunny next to us. Halfway into the show, you two belly scooched toward each other until you touched pads. The crowd loved it.
I hope you did too.
As you saw last night, another pup nipped the top prize. But you were a champion true. You overcame a terrifying fear, trusted a new human, resisted eating live bacon — and scored $500 for Sunny Day Acres, the shelter that took you in. You even nabbed an emerald-green medal I hear your dad plans to frame.
You were courage incarnate. And that’s not just an uncle’s pride talking. Dodger dog: Best in Valliance.
Of course, titles come with trappings. Namely, this one: Show us how.
