Case Four – York Hill Persians

York Hill did not make headlines, but it belongs in the same conversation. A small group of pedigree and mixed-breed cats had been locked in an apartment without food, water, or ventilation, left to fend for themselves in unsanitary conditions amid filth and neglect.

The smell from the unit hit us the moment we stepped out of the lift. As we approached the apartment, we saw that urine had flowed out into the corridor. Inside, the scene was devastating — emaciated, starving cats, empty bowls, and a heavy, airless silence. For me, this case is personal; I was among the volunteers on the scene, and I led the rescue.

When we first pried the door open, we didn’t go in right away. The stench was overwhelming — the kind that clings to your hair and clothes. In the half-dark, we saw movement: tiny shapes climbing up the metal gate, their claws catching in the mesh. There were so many of them — mostly black-and-white tuxedo kittens — trying to reach the light and the sound of voices. They had been starving, yet still alive enough to climb, to hope that someone would come.

The case involved fourteen cats. Among the surviving eleven were a motley-colored Persian female actively nursing, one motley Persian kitten about five weeks old, and a litter of five black-and-white tuxedo kittens believed to be Ragamuffin–Persian crosses. The nursing mother suffered from an eye infection and was later diagnosed with a urinary tract infection. Among the others were a beautiful Siamese–Persian mix, several Persians, and one short-haired cat.

One adult Tonkinese (a brown Siamese) had already died in the apartment, its body removed shortly before our arrival. Two of the fourteen cats had escaped some weeks earlier — one of them found brutally killed by a cat-hater in the neighbourhood just days before the rescue. Residents who knew me as a community caregiver sent me photos of the scene. It was clear from the injuries that the cat had been tortured before its death. I had fed and held that cat only days before — a black-and-white Ragamuffin–Persian, barely a year and a half old. Remembering it still brings tears. My only comfort is knowing that I managed to rescue the remaining eleven cats from that apartment.

They had no fresh air inside that flat. All of them crowded against the front door — it was the only place where air seeped in from the corridor gap below. That was where they urinated, and over time, the waste pooled and flowed out into the common passageway. It was the smell that finally drew attention. Neighbours began to complain, and that led my informants to alert me to what was happening inside.

During the two months that followed, as I went in and out each day to feed the last two surviving cats, tension in the block grew. One morning, as I arrived with food, an elderly neighbour suddenly sprayed me with a can of Baygon. I had to rush home to shower, then call the police to intervene. I didn’t press charges — it was an old couple, frightened and angry, and I understood they just needed somewhere to vent their frustration.

When the police arrived, I had to ask them to explain on my behalf. I couldn’t speak conversational Chinese, and the neighbours couldn’t understand me. The officers told them I was a volunteer — that I had the letter of authorisation and legal custody of the cats, and that my only task was to feed them until foster care became available. I had no power to enter the flat for cleaning or to repair what had already decayed. All I could do was keep the cats alive until help arrived.

That morning stayed with me. It showed how quickly compassion can be mistaken for nuisance, and how cruelty doesn’t always end at the abuser’s door. Sometimes, it spills into the corridor, onto the rescuer, and into the air we all breathe.

Of the eleven rescued, nine were moved to foster care and later rehomed. One of the remaining two was severely traumatised by the violence it had witnessed in the household. It feared men — especially those wearing glasses and singlets. For two months, I visited the unit twice a day to feed and befriend these two cats before finally managing to trap them. I took them home for rehabilitation. It took months before the traumatised cat began to trust again. We call him Sweetie Romeo. He remains with me still — one of fifteen rescued cats who found sanctuary here.

This case was documented through firsthand rescue accounts, not through public prosecution records. Therefore, it is presented with care and without speculation:

• Pedigree-type cats were kept unsterilised and allowed to breed unchecked.
• When circumstances changed — financially or personally — the animals were left vulnerable.

York Hill is the quieter face of the same equation seen in Fernvale and Boon Lay: cats multiply, resources don’t, and the weakest pay first.