The Cat Lady of South Carolina

In 2009 I got my first job, working as a volunteer for the Feline Freedom Coalition; a non-profit, no-kill organization, based out of a 20-acre compound hidden in the woods of Ravenel, South Carolina. Made up of converted trailers, shipping containers and sheds, “The Sanctuary” was home to roughly 250 cats, of all shapes and shades, with a variety of back stories and medical needs. I had always loved animals, so the thought of playing with cats and kittens in my spare time felt more like a dream than a job. As I walked the grounds, poking my fingers through the chain link fences, letting juicy pink noses pick up my scent, a naive smile imprinted itself on my thirteen year-old face.

I was so excited to start working, to start socializing with the cats, to start helping with adoptions, to start fundraising and planning events. That morning my father told me to wear “working clothes” so I picked out a pair of light jean shorts, which complimented my orange shirt and black Converse sneakers, and I pulled my hair up out of the Southern humidity and into a messy, but cute bun. I was so ready to start working. I made my way down the fences, introducing myself to my new best-feline-friends, until I met eyes with Diane Straney.

It would be easy to mistake her for one of the cats. Even despite her petite frame, her sharp jaw, her spiky black hair or the catlike curiosity in her eyes, Diane moved with purpose, hunched slightly to the ground but with a head that always looked forward, as if listening to something in the distance. This cat lady was my boss, and the Sanctuary was her home. My dainty dreams of lying in a puddle of tiny paws and fluffy tails, cuddled by furry bellies and sweet whisker kisses, well, they were fantasy, and Diane soon showed me the reality.

You see, while I was just beginning to dip my toes into the animal-welfare-pool, Dianne was, frankly, drowning. Her work with feral cats began in Charleston in 1995.

“I started working with colonies, you know, just, random cat colonies, in gas stations, and in the woods and stuff. And, I had gotten so many colonies, I was taking care of so many, that I said, let me just get a piece of property, and try to pull all these cats, as many as I can off of the streets.”

So in 2002 Diane purchased the piece of land in Ravenel and did just that. Her and some volunteers began trapping feral cats, who would “bite the livin’ daylight out of ya” and collecting unwanted pets and colonies that were in danger, or under threat of being killed.

“[People] would snatch ‘em and kill ‘em. Either because, maybe the property they were on was gonna be built up, you know, or maybe they were in the woods and all of a sudden there was gonna be a development there”.

Diane would dress in all black, as she still does, and sneak out, trying to rescue as many cats as she could under the cloak of night, trying not to get caught.

“Animal control was not enlightened, even back in 2002. [Charleston] didn't become enlightened until 2008, when they really embraced the trap-neuter-return concept, where you don't kill feral cats, you trap ‘em, you fix ‘em and you put ‘em back where they are.”

This was Diane’s philosophy, and in 2008, in partnership with the ASPCA, the Community Partnership Program was created. This pulled together major shelters like Pet Helpers and the Charleston Animal Society, providing the funds, human resources and training necessary to become a no-kill community.

“The goal became we are no longer going to kill cats, or dogs, we are going to spay and neuter, we are going to improve our adoption procedures, and were going to help people with behavioral problems when they have animals, and if you drive on all three of those fronts effectively, you can become a no-kill community, which ultimately we did, so we started in 2008 and by 2012 we were no-kill.”

Even though Diane had achieved her goal, the realities of running a fully functional, non-profit animal sanctuary began to sink in. The hardest work became maintaining the facilities, and finding volunteers who were willing to help. Because as gratifying as helping animals can be, 90% of the effort was spent cleaning up shit.

“Ten hours a day. Non stop. Every. Day. There was nothing easy about it. Nothing”.

On a slow day, my job included filing paperwork or inputting adoption information into Excel spreadsheets. Monotonous work that I enjoyed, especially with the company of a cat or two; maybe Austin the handsome boy, made up of gray and white patches, Simon the old Siamese, getting ready to die, or Lexi the attention whore, who always demanded a free hand for petting.

If I were lucky, I was put on kitten duty, spending hours in a trailer letting their little bodies trample over me. But on a normal day, I would show up around 9 and start in the laundry room, a shed with two washers and dryers, a toilet, and all the bedding and cleaning supplies needed for the work ahead.

After collecting some rags, beds, spray bottles and trash bags, I’d load up the golf cart parked outside and start my rounds. Jethro, an old yellow labrador with bad arthritis in his legs, would trail behind me until reaching the entrance of one of the shelters. He’d keep me company, and antagonize the cats, as I’d scoop litter boxes, re-fill water bowls, re-fill food bowls, replace dirty beds, sweep the floors of the indoor enclosure, and wipe up any loose vomit or diarrhea. I’d give the cats some lovin’ before dropping off trash bags in the bin, and any soiled rags or beds in the washer, and then Jethro and I would continue on to the next enclosure, and then the next. Most days I’d develop a rhythm, finishing each shelter in an hour or less. Some days I’d get distracted by texts from boys, and so I’d skip a few steps and finish in 30.

Apparently I wasn't the only volunteer struggling to stay motivated, because others stopped showing up for their shifts, saying that they’d love to help with the adoptions, but that the workload was just too much to handle. Diane couldn’t understand that. She had exhausted her savings to maintain the Sanctuary, and had even began housing the frailest cats in her own home, roughly 30. She was always on the phone, always on the move, and I don't think I ever saw her eat. I continued to help until 2012 when I moved away, and the Feline Freedom Coalition stayed afloat with Diane’s efforts for a few more years until she finally realized just how thin she’d stretched herself.

In 2015 the Feline Freedom Coalition, and all of its responsibilities, were absorbed by the surrounding animal shelters, and Diane Straney became a volunteer in her own organization. I asked her if it all seemed worth it in the end, if her role in becoming one of the first no-kill states in the country outweighed the downfalls of owning and funding a non-profit for 20 years?

“I regret a lot of it, but I don't think I could've done anything else. Once you got in it you couldn't get out. If I had it to do over again. I mean there were some devastating, consequences, financially and otherwise. If I could see the future, I probably wouldn't have been able to start it, cause it was hard.”

She excused herself for a moment, as she was getting a call about some kittens in a Walmart parking lot.

“But I literally have saved hundreds of thousands of animals. So can you say you regret that? I can't say that. But it was hell, that's all I can say”.

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