Bono

Back in the reception area, we watched Sadie load Bono’s food into a bag. She explained that while he liked the crunchy dry stuff, it was important for him to eat the canned fish because it contained medication that was good for his kidneys. She added a bottle of pills, and handed me a soft, high-walled cat bed shaped like an igloo. I figured it had been carefully chosen for a creature who might want to hide from the world. Jon emerged from the cat room wearing a triumphant grin.

“Call me anytime,” he said, presenting Lydia with the cat carrier complete with passenger. “Let him run the relationship. Anything you can give him is more than he’s used to. Talk to him. The sound of the human voice works wonders. When we get feral kittens in, we often read to them.”

Not for the first time, I was humbled by the dedication of animal welfare workers. Reading to kittens indeed.

Jon seemed reluctant for us to leave the building with his beloved animal. I wondered if I’d be doing us both a service if I offered to let Bono stay behind. But Lydia was halfway out the door with the cat carrier.

“And remember,” Jon called after us. “He’s gonna be cranky. Keep him in a confined space for at least twenty-four hours.”

As Mrs. Lincoln said to Abraham on the way to the theater, this was going to be a laugh a minute.

Chapter Nine

WITH OR WITHOUT YOU

Velvet paws are fragile yet strong.

We opted to walk the six blocks from Bideawee to our studio apartment. Lydia clucked and fussed as she toted Bono’s carrier past the UN Building. Two golden eyes gazed out through the mesh. He was unnervingly quiet. A couple of times I asked her to stop and to check he was still alive. The orbs stared back at us warily. Maybe he was plotting escape. That would be a disaster. Even though Bono didn’t have a home, there was no doubt the people at Bideawee cared deeply for him.

After he’d arrived at Bideawee with a kidney infection, the shelter invested a considerable sum in his veterinary care. His five-star treatment had included antibiotics and fluids. I was impressed Bideawee’s commitment to this strange-looking cat was so unwavering. But the organization has a long history of going beyond the norm to help animals in need.

Though it takes a stretch of imagination to picture farm animals and horses plodding down Fifth Avenue, they were a common sight back in the early 1900s. To make the animals’ working days easier, Bideawee installed and maintained water troughs throughout the city. A 1907 photo of a weary carriage horse drinking deeply from a Bideawee barrel is as heartwarming today as it was over a hundred years ago.

As we escorted Bono into our lives, it was strange to think none of this would be happening if it hadn’t been for the remarkable and well-traveled Mrs. Flora D’Auby Jenkins Kibbe. More than 100 years ago, on a trip to France, she was inspired by the work of a radical dog refuge, Barrone d’Herpents. Instead of destroying stray dogs, as was the common practice, the refuge collected them from all over Paris and cared for them until they could be given new homes.

Mrs. Kibbe took the idea back to New York where, by the end of 1903, she was caring for abandoned animals from a modest building near her Manhattan home. She called it Bideawee (meaning “stay a while” in Scottish).

By the time her canine collection exceeded 200, her neighbors started complaining about the barking and she was forced to move her animals to a series of temporary shelters. Just when it was looking as if Mrs. Kibbe’s vision might dwindle into history, New Yorkers dug deep and gave Bideawee the permanent home it still has today at 410 East 38th Street.

The organization has since expanded to include two centers on Long Island, along with memorial grounds, where thousands of treasured pets are laid to rest.

Through the wonderful work of Bideawee, Mrs. Kibbe’s ghost continues to smile over New York’s lost and needy creatures. The most recent beneficiary of her policy of never euthanizing an animal unless it’s in the final stages of incurable illness or suffering was inside the carrier at the end of Lydia’s arm.

The food and medicine bags were light enough for me to carry, but the cat bed was unwieldy. I was relieved when Lydia put Bono’s carrier down on the sidewalk to push strands of hair back from her face.

I assumed the tears glistening on her cheeks were a reaction to the icy wind coming off the East River, and waited for her to shrug them off. But then I realized she was actually weeping. I hadn’t seen my self-contained daughter cry in years. Even though she was adult and far better educated than me, I was still programmed to be mother duck, wanting to envelop her in my wings to heal every hurt.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, setting the cat bed and bags of pet food down on the sidewalk and bundling her into my arms.

“Three years,” she said, sobbing, “It’s not fair. He’s a beautiful cat. Life’s so . . . fragile.”