Wild Cats in Prison

In Wild Cats in Prison, Daniel Harris tells the unexpected story of how a stray tabby named Olivia wandered into Eastham Prison and slowly tore down the emotional walls he thought two decades of incarceration had made unbreakable. What begins as a simple prison cat story becomes a reflection on companionship, survival, and the small acts of love that still manage to exist behind bars.

Olivia

Having spent more than two decades here in Eastham, a Texas prison, I would have sworn the walls around my heart and emotions were unbreachable. Hardened convict? I thought so—until I found out differently when a grey and black tabby cat came prissing into my life and my walls came tumbling down.

Eastham prison is unusual in having such a large population of feral cats roaming the grounds. Most are glad to mooch a meal, and many will repay your kindness by allowing themselves to be petted. Rarely will they come inside to eat and lounge in comfort. Only one made the halls and day rooms her territory.

Some prisoners catch baby sparrows out of their nests in the outside recreation cages, climbing the fences into the razor wire and chancing cuts and cases so they can keep them in their tiny cells as companions. For many prisoners, these tiny creatures are the only love they’ve had in years. It’s not so surprising that they’d take the chances they do when you see it that way.

I’ve watched my fellow prisoners make pets of every variety of lizard species, train mice to live willingly in the confines of their desks, carry frogs and snakes in their pockets, and bats under their shirts. One prisoner even had a large painted turtle that thought being carried around was normal, sticking his neck out full length and paddling the air as if swimming.

I never had an urge to have a pet here, where officials can confiscate them as contraband. Why would I share my food with such unappreciative creatures? I found my peers’ efforts to keep pets humorous, but it turns out they had the last laugh.

Queen of the North End

You couldn’t really miss Olivia roaming the north end. She was queen of her realm—or thought she was.

Warden Bell was witnessed calling her over so he could pick her up and scratch her ears before releasing her with his tacit seal of approval. Major Lamb was known to take her into his office to feed her when her roaming had upset officers, then release her once their shift was over.

You wouldn’t expect such a friendly mooch to make enemies. She didn’t know she wasn’t welcome in everyone’s bunk. One day a prisoner threw her off two-row. I went to the dayroom to make sure she was okay, and I let it be known that I was willing to represent the cat.

I would later have to prove my willingness to fight behind my little friend. No big deal. I’ve fought for lesser reasons, often.

I began to teach her that my cell was her home and that there would always be food available if she needed it.

Crow and the Cat

Crow was my cellie. He was my friend before I moved into his cell. He came to prison young and pretty in 1987 and, rather than be owned, had to stab a couple of men to make a reputation. He started with 40 Agg; now he’s got 129 years and five stacked sentences and tribal art that resembles tears down through the middle of each eye.

Crow swore I had a symbiotic relationship with this cat. I couldn’t deny it. It was weird how it had just happened.

It was frustrating to never know when her mooching would have her stomach full and when she would arrive starving. It was expensive to make sure she was always fed. Crow named her Olivia, and she always answered—as long as you had food.

Some thought cats nasty and diseased. I came to her defense with information about cats being natural pest control and that they don’t carry diseases humans can catch. I also pointed out that no one ever had a cat chew holes in their soup and cookie packages the way mice did.

Olivia had killed three mice in our cell, and we no longer saw mice after she moved in.

Winter of Firsts

She had made her bed at my feet until I gave her a bath. From that day forward she would curl up to be cuddled to my chest. I guess she wasn’t too upset about her bath—I didn’t force her to stay.

Crow is a night owl and informed me of Olivia’s actions while I slept. Whenever she would get down to go outside or cool off on the concrete floor, she would meow in my face until I woke up, then instantly fall fast asleep.

Her need to make me aware of her presence on her return was a chance to show her affection, and I was enjoying every minute of it.

Once she stuck her cold nose against mine while meowing in my face. When I made room for her, she curled up and stuck her nose in my hand as if to say, “I showed you it was cold. Hold it.”

It was a winter of firsts. I would have bet everything I owned that never in my life would I wash a cat’s ass. That was before Olivia came home with her furry fanny covered in diarrheic mess from a spoiled meal she had probably mooched.

No way could she clean that mess up alone, and there was no one else to do it.

The Kittens

As Olivia’s belly swelled with kittens, she became ever more dependent. That was when she began to groom me for hours on end. Knowing where that tongue had been made no difference to me.

There is no greater show of affection a cat gives than grooming her human.

When I looked at what she had achieved after grooming my hair, I realized she had missed her calling as a punk rock hairstylist. The front of my hair was painted into wild spikes and my eyebrows slicked into some exotic catty conformity.

It didn’t matter as long as it kept her occupied and off the halls.

The night she gave birth, I had just moved to a new cell on three-row and she had parked herself on top of my property as if intent on going with me. So I took her along.

Olivia paced the new cell in misery until I got her to settle on my bunk by rubbing her belly. I had felt the kittens pushing against my hands for days, and now they were even more active.

The first kitten came out in a gush of fluid. Olivia yowled and gripped my hand in her teeth as if trying to stifle her anguish. The trust it took for me not to pull away from her was paid in full when she drew no blood.

With the first baby born, her instincts kicked in and she began to clean him.

Of the six kittens born that night, only three would survive long enough to open their eyes.

I named the first Shade for his coloring, which looked like shadow on dark water.

What Olivia Taught Me

Only Shade thrived. When Crow went to lock-up, he gave him to me to take care of. I eventually convinced a lady guard to take him home, where he became her mother’s pampered pet.

Olivia was not as trusting when I returned after being gone for a while, though I was still willing to stand up for her if needed. It wasn’t her fault. I went away. She was mine, and she had every right to be mad at me about it.

Olivia eventually disappeared from my life one way or another.

I’ll never be sure of Olivia’s fate, but for the price of a few meals she taught me much about taking life one day at a time and being willing to love—even if it’s only for a minute.

Though Olivia is gone, the knowledge she left behind is still with me.

Daniel Herbert Harris is serving 35 years in Texas for Attempted Capital Murder.