The setting: About 1:00 AM on a rainy night in Brooklyn, New York. A series of strong thunderstorms have just moved through the region, and it’s still raining heavily.

I’m working at my computer when I hear the heart-wrenching cry of a kitten somewhere outside, near my apartment. As opposed to the sound of a garden-variety cat meow, the sound of this kitten’s howling indicates that he is in serious trouble somewhere. It’s the type of howl that says, “Help me, I’m dying.” This goes on for several minutes.

I go to the front window, but don’t see anything. However, it’s a neighborhood of densely-spaced brownstone apartment buildings, so the kitten could be anywhere. Also, my view is obstructed by the trees in front of the window.

The cries continue. Being a good Episcopalian and animal lover, and having a bishop and one close friend who are third-order Franciscans, I decide to do something. I log off my chat room, put on my shoes, grab my umbrella, and head out onto the street.

A passing neighbor has also stopped to find out where this kitten is. After some searching around, we discover that the kitten is stuck on a third-floor ledge on the building across the street from mine. Hell if I know how he got there. The windows on that floor are dark, so we assume nobody is home in that apartment.

What to do, what to do….

A guy comes out of the building, but he lives on the ground floor and has no access to the top floor apartment.

We notice a large extension ladder propped up against the building next door. As soon as we plan a rescue operation, we realize the ladder is chained to the adjacent window grate with a large padlock. Damn.

Remembering there were a couple long ladders in the basement of my own building, I run downstairs only to find that they’re gone. Shit.

A lady comes out from the building where the ladder is, but she doesn’t know whose ladder it is, nor who has the key to the lock.

What to do, what to do… It’s now been almost an hour since I first heard the kitten crying. Time for outside help.

I grab my cell phone and call the ASPCA (the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals). Their offices are closed, and the voice mailbox for the emergency line won’t even let me leave a message, because the mailbox is full.

I call 311, which is the city’s non-emergency help line. The guy at the other end says the department in charge of cat rescues (there is such a thing?) won’t open until 8 AM.

Finally, I call 911, hoping somebody will send a fire truck down to the place to rescue this poor kitten. It’s still pouring rain, and he’s obviously scared out of his mind. The ledge he’s on is barely four inches wide, and it’s about thirty feet above the ground. The 911 operator tells me this is not an emergency, and directs me to call 311 before she hangs up on me.

The lady from the building next door suggests walking to the fire station up the street and seeing if they can perhaps perform a rescue. Good idea. I walk up to the nearest firehouse, which is only about a hundred yards away, and ring the doorbell.

A guy runs down the stairs and answers the door, and I explain the situation to him. He goes on the loudspeaker, notifies the dispatcher, and next thing I know, it’s a scene from the movie Backdraft. Within seconds, about a half-dozen of New York’s Bravest™ come running down the stairs, get suited up, and get on the fire truck. The garage door opens, and the truck takes off with sirens wailing and lights flashing. I’m thinking: This fucking cat better still be there when these guys show up.

I run after them, and get to the scene just a few seconds after them. They’ve got their flashlights out, and have located the kitten. The guy turns to me and says, “A kitten? I thought you said there was a kid stuck on a ledge.”

I feel a sudden desire to change my name and move to a new country.

Well, the cat is still there, so now what? Neighbors tend to get curious when they see a fire truck outside their apartment building with its lights flashing, so a guy on the second floor of this building peeks his head out to see what’s going on. He lets the firefighters inside, and they march up to the third floor to see if they can get inside the apartment to let the cat in.

Meanwhile, I’m outside with a couple other firefighters. With the aid of the flashlights, we see that the window behind the cat is actually open a few inches. And what does the cat do, after sitting on the ledge and howling for an hour?

Naturally, he turns around and goes back inside the apartment.

The firefighter standing next to me turns to me and says with a thick Brooklyn accent, “You know, there’s a reason you never see a cat skeleton in a tree.”

With that, Ladder Company 114 is called down from red alert, and the guys get back into their truck and return to the fire station. I return to my apartment soaking wet and with my tail between my legs.

And now, as I write this, the kitten is back out on the ledge howling.

(Originally posted on the message board at shipoffools.com)