Bono

Like thousands of other animals, Bono had lost his home during Hurricane Sandy when it had struck New York in October the previous year. After being found washed up and bedraggled on Long Island, he had been taken to a municipal shelter. Though Jon didn’t elaborate, he gave the impression the cat’s future would have been limited in that place. When I prodded him for more information, he said all he knew was that Bono had been abandoned or surrendered. Both words struck me as incredibly sad.

Because of Bono’s friendly nature and beguiling combination of Persian and Maine coon, he was given a second chance. He was transferred to Bideawee in Manhattan, where he was more likely to find a permanent home. Jon reminded me Bono had been with them a full six months, which was a long time for any living creature to spend most of its days in a cage.

“But you said everyone loves him,” I said. “Surely someone will adopt him?”

Jon shook his head.

“People are always drawn to him, but when they find out he has chronic kidney disease they back away.”

A river boulder formed in my chest.

“Isn’t that something old cats get?” I asked, watching Bono glide across the room. With his Ugg boots hardly touching the ground, he floated like a ballet dancer. That cat couldn’t be dying. He was practically exploding with life.

“Not necessarily,” Jon said, his mouth set in a grim line. “We think he’s about four years old. That’s usually a good age for adoption, but we understand why people don’t want to take him. The treatment’s expensive and it’s going to end in heartache. Only a saint would give him a home.”

Bono sprang on top of a scratching post next to Lydia. Adopting a classic pose for a few seconds, he reminded me of a sculpture overlooking a European square. I was relieved he could actually sit still. He dipped his head, inviting Lydia to scratch his forehead. I wasn’t looking at him so much as the effect he was having on my daughter. As she clucked and cooed over him, he was bringing out a nurturing side I hadn’t seen in her before.

Sadie lowered the tuxedo cat to the floor and crouched next to Lydia. The young women raised their hands for a tentative pat. For a moment it looked as if Bono was going to reward their adulation with a lick. But the cat sprang off his haunches and sailed away.

“I come here every day just to visit Bono,” Sadie said, looking after him wistfully. “He has a great personality. I’d love to adopt him, but the medical costs are way beyond me.”

When I asked if Bono had ever had a home, Jon said the cat was too socialized not to have lived with humans before.

“But he hasn’t had one-on-one interaction with people for a long time,” he added. “He’s going to freak out with you to begin with. Keep him in a small space like a bathroom for the first couple of days. Take it slow. Don’t push the relationship. He may hiss.”

It seemed our relationship with Bono was going to be complicated. As if that wasn’t enough to deal with, Jon added that the cat, who was almost certainly going to be a handful, would need medication twice daily. He scooped Bono off the floor, and held him in the same position Philip used with Jonah. Except Jon’s grip was tighter and the paws were tucked firmly down. He made it look a breeze, tilting the cat’s head back, prying the jaws open and popping the pill in. If we had any problems with the technique, he said, all we’d have to do is hide a tablet in a slice of fresh chicken and Bono would wolf it down.

“He could gain a pound or two,” Jon added, as Bono wriggled out of his grasp and darted away. “He’s a fussy eater.”

Bono certainly was a scrawny feline. His ribs were clearly visible under his shaved skin. His fur had a dull, lifeless texture of steel wool. Though his eyes were beautiful, they had an oily sheen that didn’t look healthy. Being so small and at the bottom of the food chain in the shelter, the cat burned up a lot of nervous energy, Jon said.

“He’s never going to leave this place,” he continued. “The best you can do for him is to give him a holiday, even if it’s just till the weekend.”

I asked how much longer Bono was expected to live. When Jon said about three years the boulder in my chest lurched and turned to butter. It was a tough prognosis for such a spirited animal. Any chance of negotiating my way out of fostering him had disappeared faster than a tom cat up a dark alley. Besides, Lydia was captivated.

“You can bring him back in a day or two if it doesn’t work out,” Jon said.

“Oh really?” I asked, trying to hide my enthusiasm for the idea. “He does seem a bit of a handful.”

“No, he’s not!” Lydia said, flashing me a disapproving look.

“He’s just a bit excited, aren’t you boy? We’re going to love having him.” Jon asked us to leave the room while he wrangled Bono into a carry case. It was a worrying sign. I wondered if a lasso was required.