Bono

“Not really,” I said. “It’s where the Lord of the Rings comes from.”

“So, let me get this straight,” she said. “You guys are hobbits?”

We laughed and said we were, right to the toenails of our hairy feet.

“So how long have you been living in New York?”

It was natural for her to assume we had settled in. Why else would we have a cat? When Lydia explained we were on a fostering mission, the girl broke into a smile.

“Sophie!” she yelled. “Come over here! You gotta hear this.”

A tall girl in an orange bandana appeared.

“These ladies come from the Lord of the Rings and they’re fostering a New York cat,” the green-haired girl explained. “They need a feeding bowl.”

“That’s amazing!” her friend said.

I could hardly believe how much a foster cat-to-be was changing people’s attitudes toward us.

“We don’t have a specific pet feeding bowl,” the taller one said. “But wait. I’ve got an idea.”

She dived behind a pile of cardboard boxes to retrieve a small red dish with silver fish etched into its surface.

“It’s beautiful!” I said. “And perfect for a cat. How much is it?”

The young women exchanged looks.

“We want you to have it,” the taller one said.

They were sweet girls, but I thought they needed to work on their communication skills.

“Yes, I know you’d like us to take it. But how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” the younger one said. “Just have a great time with your cat.”

Laden with our gifts, Lydia and I made our way back to the apartment in a daze.

“New Yorkers must have a real thing for their pets,” Lydia said.

“Maybe it is because more than half the population lives alone,” I said. “For a lot of people animals could be taking the place of significant others.”

Either way, nothing could have prepared us for the generosity we had just experienced. I wished Greg and Olivia could have seen it.

If we’d been visiting New York as mere tourists, we’d never have met these kindhearted women and seen how quickly their crusty surfaces could dissolve.

Our rescue cat Mavis was working her magic.

Chapter Eight

A ROCK STAR IN FUR

Caring for a cat is the first step towards self-healing.

Lydia was revving like a Ferrari. As we made our way toward Bideawee on East 38th Street she bounded ahead. I called out to her so we could stop and admire the UN Building. Poised like a cigarette packet against the shimmering East River, it’s the architectural equivalent of Don Draper. Though it has a sixties look, it was actually completed in 1952, proving itself yet another New Yorker ahead of its time.

Intrigued as I was to be visiting a big city animal shelter, I was wary of such places. When I was a kid, the animal pound was a dismal shed on the outskirts of town. A holding pen where unwanted creatures spent a few miserable days before being “humanely” destroyed, it reeked of death.

Besides, I was nervous about the cat. Even a placid one like Mavis might sense my reluctance and take it into her head to exact punishment.

“Is this it?” Lydia asked, stopping outside a modern, multistoried building smiling out across the river. The gleaming exterior couldn’t have been further from my idea of an animal shelter. A small, ecstatic dog burst out of the doors. With its ears pricked and pink tongue flying, it pranced joyfully past us, as if a wonderful new life had just begun. When the man attached to his lead caught my eye his smile broadened.

“She’s a fox terrier cross,” he called over his shoulder, as the dog dragged him up the sidewalk. “We’re calling her Gracie.”

Inside, a warm and spacious lobby bustled with benign energy. A security guard stood discreetly by the door. There wasn’t a hint of animal whiff about the place. Across the shining floor, a young couple sat holding hands. Their anxious faces reminded me of parents expecting their first child. When a woman appeared with a cat carrier in her arms, they looked up hopefully. Their smiles faded to disappointment as she walked straight past them into another room.

I could have spent the morning watching people meet their pets for the first time, but Lydia steered me toward a reception area. A smiling woman in her mid-thirties greeted us and introduced herself as Suzie. With her long ponytail and clear eyes, she beamed an almost angelic quality.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “You’re here for Bono, aren’t you?”

The only Bono I knew about was a rock star with yellow glasses, and there’d probably be a lot more security if he was in the vicinity. I began to explain to her that whatever a Bono was, we weren’t about to collect one.

“Jon’s excited, too,” she continued. “He’s our cat assessment manager.”