Bono

A homeless man sat hunched on a bench under a stainless steel sculpture. He held out his palm to a pair of executive types in long, dark coats. Locked in conversation, they strode past him down the hill toward the UN. This was the harsh, uncaring city Greg and Olivia had warned me about. Maybe I’d been foolish to imagine I could spend a month among people as cold as the concrete buildings they lived and worked in.

I knotted my scarf and grabbed Lydia’s hand as we crossed the street. If we’d been tourists we’d have walked straight past the small, homey shop sandwiched between a Laundromat and a hardware store. An old ginger cat sat in the window and blinked at us. A bell tinkled as we pushed the door open to step into an Aladdin’s cave of pet food and toys. While some of the brands were unfamiliar to us, the smell of meat mingled with sawdust was not. As we wandered down the aisle, the ginger cat padded after us with casual interest.

In a city made of sharp edges, the relief of seeing something so soft and linked to nature was beyond words. I wanted to gather him up in my arms and hug him.

“He must have been a tiger in a previous life,” Lydia said.

“Well, hello mister,” I said, turning and crouching on the floor. “You’re a handsome fellow. What’s your name?”

The cat twitched his whiskers and assessed whether I was worthy of his time.

“Bluebell,” a gravelly voice said. “Her name’s Bluebell. And she’s a girl.”

A woman gazed down at me through enormous round, purple spectacles. Her auburn hair was piled up in extravagant swirls. The accent had a Queens twang.

“Isn’t it rare for a ginger cat to be female?” I asked, as Bluebell stepped forward to nudge my finger with her damp nose.

“Not rare,” she said. “Unusual. Can I help you?”

Her tone was sharp, but the eyes behind the giant spectacles had a watery sadness. I began to wonder if she was one of those people whose life experiences have led them to prefer cats to humans.

“Well, yes I think you can,” I said. “We’re visiting from Australia.”

“I thought so,” she said.

“And we’re going to foster a cat while we’re here.”

Her face melted in a smile, exposing two large front teeth with an endearing gap between them.

“That’s a wonderful thing to do! What sort of cat are you getting?”

I found it heartwarming that two women from opposite sides of the globe could bond over a cat neither had met.

“We don’t know yet, but probably a quiet old thing like your Bluebell.”

“Bluebell’s not old,” the woman’s tone was defensive. “She’s only 14.”

The shopkeeper needed Bluebell to hang around for a long time to come.

“You’re right,” I said, after a respectful silence. “Bluebell’s practically a teenager. We had a cat who lived to 24.”

“My Daffodil lived to 33,” she said.

It’s never a good idea to get into competitions about how long your cat survived.

“Did she?” I said. “That’s amazing!”

“Daffodil was a he, not a she.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought . . .”

“Tulip, that’s Daffodil’s sister, was female. And so was Rose, their mother. But Daffodil and Magnolia were boys.”

“Were they all ginger?” I asked taking a gray plastic litter box from the top of a pile.

“Mostly tabby,” she said, following me to the cat food section. “They all lived a very long time.”

The inherent sadness of owning a cat or dog is the knowledge they will leave too soon. When they do, the long-lived human is stricken with genuine grief. We can try to protect ourselves by not loving too much, but in the end it’s impossible. For many, the grief after losing an animal equates the pain of mourning for a human friend or family member. Perhaps, it makes sense to adopt a tortoise or a parrot who might stand a chance of outliving us.

The range of cat foot was overwhelming. Besides, I had no idea what our foster animal’s preferences would be.

“We’ll take this for now,” I said lifting the plastic tray onto the counter.

“And please,” the woman said, placing a bag of kitty litter on top of it. “I want you to have this as a gift.”

“Really?”

The woman who had been so brittle a few moments ago had become softer than fur.

“It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing for New York,” she said. “This is just a little thank-you. Come see me when you have your cat. If I’m not here, just ask for Doris. I won’t be far away.”

Numb with surprise, I thanked Doris and gave Bluebell one last pat before we left.

The hardware shop was a bewildering collection of kitchen implements and knickknacks. We made our way to the back of the store, where stacks of plates and mixing bowls towered over us.

“Are you looking for something?”

A young woman approached. The paleness of her skin was enhanced by a frame of lime green hair.

“Do you have any feeding bowls?” Lydia asked.

“For a person or a dog?”

New York humor can be deliciously blunt.

“A cat, actually.”

The girl’s face softened.

“I like cats,” she said. “You’re from England, aren’t you?”

“We live in Australia, but we were both born in New Zealand,” Lydia said.

“That’s near Holland, isn’t it?” the girl asked.