Free Broadway Tails by Bill Berloni Page B

ferocious appetite. I thought this cat might work, so I adopted him and called him Champ.
    I had been called at the beginning of September, knowing the first preview performance was in mid-October. There was no sense bringing this cat to rehearsal and getting him used to the actors because he would only be interacting with one person onstage. There was no reason to get him used to the company and all of the commotion of the singing and dancing. I decided to wait until the week before we actually got into the real theater to bring the cat in. Meanwhile, I brought him home and set him up in one of my bedrooms so he didn’t have to deal with the dogs. Each night I would feed him on a stool. Before I fed him, I would put him on the stool, take a little piece of his cat food, and throw it from the stool onto the floor about three feet away. He would jump down to get it and then come back up. So we created a game where before he got his full meal, he would jump off the stool to chase a little piece of food.
    About a week after I’d adopted Champ, I brought him into a rehearsal hall in New York City. Martin loved my idea: I was going to be in the wingswith my stool, and at the right moment, I would throw a piece of food onstage. The cat would leap about four or five feet to get it, just as the curtain was coming down. We hoped that it would have the desired effect. A week before the previews started, we went in for tech rehearsals. I asked for a quiet time onstage when the actors weren’t there, just to get the cat used to the theater, and they graciously granted me the time.
    Now, there’s one thing I know for sure—there’s no sure thing with an animal. Even though this cat had done this behavior perfectly in the confines of my home, the theater was a very large space. I didn’t want him getting spooked, running and getting hurt by the scenery, or crawling out into the audience. I had a black collar on him that matched his fur, and then I got a little piece of fishing line so that he would always be leashed but the audience wouldn’t be able to see it. Every day during the supper hour, I would go in and try to teach the cat to get his food. Champ did very well, just like at home—he was hungry, he did his bit, and at the end he got his full meal and was very happy. The first time we tried it with David Alan Grier, the sets, the lights, and the sounds of people yelling and booing confused Champ a little, but by dress rehearsal he was doing it perfectly.
    The night of our first preview was very exciting. We had a great cast, a great musical, and a subject that we all believed in. As the first act came to a close, David Alan Grier came center stage—Jackie Robinson was taking his rightful place on the baseball field. We heard the jeers and the slurs. We heard a voice over the speakers shout, “Hey, Jackie, here’s something for you,” and that was my cue to throw the piece of meat onstage. It worked perfectly. The curtain came down, and I picked up Champ and brought him back to the dressing room where he happily ate his meal. We had accomplished the job. I had trained my first cat for a Broadway show, and it was exciting. We did it the next night and it was successful. I was thrilled—until I had my second brush with law enforcement. The next night, a half-hour before the curtain went up, I was called to the stage door, and there was the same officer who had investigated us on
Frankenstein
. He was asking to speak with the animal trainer. I looked at him and said, “Remember me?”
    “Oh no, not you again,” he said. “We received complaints that a cat is being abused in this show and they sent me here to investigate—seems I have a reputation in the department for liking Broadway shows.”
    “You know I would never abuse an animal,” I said.
    “I didn’t know it was you,” he said. “The complaint says that someone has been throwing a cat onstage.”
    This was something we hadn’t counted on. By the end of