Bono

I reminded her of our physiotherapist friend, Stephen, and his part kelpie dog Millie. Stephen was devastated when a vet told him Millie had two months to live. The vet had overlooked the fact Stephen has a special affinity for failing bodies, both human and animal. On a diet of organic meat and unadulterated devotion, Millie was still thriving five years later.

“If he finds a good home,” I said, puffing up the second flight. “He could live for ages.”

Oh yeah, the inner cynic piped up. This city’s packed with saints begging to adopt a cat that’s going to cost them a Kardashian’s ransom in vet’s fees, pee all over their apartment and then snuff it.

My live-in critic introduced himself (it was always a male voice) when I was at journalism school more than forty years earlier. He’d come in handy a few times, especially when I’d been working in the aggressively sexist environment of newsrooms. The witty asides and sneering negativity felt like a protective coating from the more shocking aspects of human behavior. Like most smart-asses though, the inner cynic vanished when times were hard. He offered no consolation through the death of a child, cancer, or the loss of friends, who were starting to fade away with sobering regularity. Though I managed to repress the voice for a while during the spiritual nineties, I never succeeded in getting rid of him completely.

I stopped on a shadowy landing to catch my breath and examine a DO NOT SLAM DOORS! notice scribbled in angry red capitals and duct-taped to a battered-looking door. Whoever lived in there was directly underneath our studio. They must have suffered under the reign of the previous tenants.

After taking a deep breath, I scooped the cat bed and food bags into my arms, plowed up the last flight, and punched the number code in our door lock. Bono peered inquisitively through the wires of his cat carrier as Lydia placed it on the floor. He seemed calm. Lydia and I exchanged looks. We both ached to let him out to explore his temporary home. But Jon’s instructions had been clear.

“Guess he’ll have to go in the Bunker for a day or two,” I said.

“But this place is tiny,” Lydia said, waving her arms until her fingertips almost touched the walls on both sides of the room. “And he’s so passive. Can’t we let him out just for a few minutes?”

True, by Australian standards the studio wasn’t much bigger than a birdcage. No doubt Jon gave the same advice to everyone he sent home with a cat. Unlike the wild, bouncing Bono we’d seen at Bideawee, he seemed to have become a different animal. He was placid, almost unnervingly quiet. When I peered into the carrier, a cherub gazed back at me.

What could possibly go wrong? I nodded.

Lydia squeezed the latch on the cat carrier. It sprang open with alarming speed as a ball of black wool burst out, and whirled about the room. Ears flattened against his scalp, eyes ablaze, the cat spun past us in a blur.

Lydia prepared to dive for him as he hurtled toward her, but he made an artful detour at the coffee table and circled back to the center of the room, building up speed like a hurricane.

“Stop!” I yelled, pointlessly at the spiraling force of nature that bore no resemblance to the playful mini lion we’d collected from Bideawee. “You’re supposed to be sick!”

He spun faster and faster, past the coffee table, sofa, fireplace, coffee table, sofa . . .

I made a grab for him as he galloped, scooting past my knees. It was the first time I’d touched him. The fur on his torso felt coarse and warm, like sheep’s wool. His ribs were hard and sharp. He slithered out of my hands.

Having known a few hyperactive children, I’ve learned if you keep your cool and refuse to get sucked into their manic state, small creatures run out of energy and calm down—eventually.

Coffee table, sofa, fireplace, coffee table . . .

Any moment now, Bono would collapse exhausted in a humble ball of fur.

Sofa, fireplace, coffee table, sofa . . .

The cat accelerated, toppling the vase of daffodils and spilling them onto the floor. Then, to our horror and disbelief, he shot up the fireplace.

Lydia and I shared looks of astonishment. We emitted a simultaneous cry as clouds of rubble and dust avalanched down the void into the room. The only evidence of Bono was a black lion’s tail, dangling like a doorbell through a curtain of dust from inside the chimney.

The room fell spookily silent. Particles of soot and plaster surfed the watery sunlight. Lydia and I stared at the tail.

“Do you think I should pull it?” I asked.