Bono

On the eve of the storm, Bono’s feline sensors would have gone into overdrive. Instinct would have urged him to run away and hide. On October 29, when Sandy struck Long Island, the roar of the wind and pounding rain was harrowing enough for human ears. For a sensitive cat like Bono it would have been excruciating. His world would have exploded into a surreal nightmare.

Across the water, in Lower Manhattan, fourteen-foot high waves surged over the sea wall at the Battery. The Hugh L. Carey Tunnel (connecting Manhattan to Brooklyn) was flooded, along with parts of the city’s subway system. Four miles farther up the island in Chelsea, Michaela’s apartment building was engulfed and left without power or water. Throngs of people fled her neighborhood to stay with friends in less affected parts of the city. But Michaela refused to leave her cats.

At times her apartment must have felt like a deserted island surrounded by undrinkable water. Limited quantities of potable water were available at street level, however. For several days, Michaela and Gene lugged buckets up eighteen flights of stairs to three of the most pampered felines in the city.

Over on Long Island, Bono wasn’t so lucky. Watching videos of the storm’s impact there, I tried to imagine what he’d been through. If he’d been living in one of the beachside houses, his owners would most likely have evacuated. Perhaps they tried to take him with them but couldn’t find the frightened creature. How heartbreaking it must have been if they’d been forced to leave him behind while fleeing for their own safety.

He’d have huddled alone in the darkness, paralyzed with fear as walls shook and windows shattered. A blast of wind may have torn the back door off its hinges. As air was sucked out of the house, a wave two-feet high would have surged up from the waterfront and bashed the front door down. As water gushed through the house, tossing tables and chairs about like toys, Bono would have had to summon every ounce of his animal wit.

Once the storm had passed, I pictured rescue workers wading through an upside-down world where roofs of cars could be seen in the sea and boats lay on their sides in the main street. Perhaps a volunteer noticed a small, bedraggled creature draped over the branch of a tree. The animal was so still, its dark fur flat and matted, she assumed it was dead. But when she reached for the fragile body, its eyes opened and fixed her with an amber gaze.

Maybe, as she slid him into a cat carrier, the radio on the rescue truck was playing “With or Without You.” That would solve any debate over what to call the latest storm victim. Whatever his name was before the storm, the cat was dubbed Bono.

It was proving a big year for name changes. The hurricane that claimed at least fifty-three lives and thousands of homes around New York was so devastating, the name Sandy was struck off the list of potential titles for future cyclones.

Thanks to the extraordinary work of animal organizations and Facebook campaigns, hundreds of pets were reunited with their families. Sadly, Bono wasn’t one of them.

Chapter Ten

HOLY SMOKE

A cat can be an angel or a devil—or both.

Lydia regained composure as we climbed the steps to the red door. Slipping the key into the heart-shaped lock, I was still wondering how a homeless cat could reduce her to tears. In her working life as a trainee psychologist back home, she dealt with harrowing human stories every day.

“Bono doesn’t know he has three years to live,” I said, as she carried her precious cargo up the first flight of stairs.

Thoughts flashed back to the doctor’s surgery. When she told me the cancer growth in my right breast was large, the prospect of dying filled the room with leaden weight. I didn’t have the courage to ask those words every human dreads saying—“How long have I got?” But she could see it on my face. She wrote a prescription for sleeping pills to get me through the next few days and said they needed to do more tests. I closed in on myself that day and focused on survival. Though my body had since recovered, I was still in an emotional fox hole.

Animals have the ability to pad lightly and with an open heart into each moment. They do not regard their lives as a line with a beginning, middle, and ending. The creaks and groans of later life are little more than passing inconvenience. However sick Bono was now, he was living the adventure to the fullest and without self-pity, simply until it stopped. I had a lot to learn from him. “Three years is a long time to a cat,” I added. “Besides, anything can happen . . .”