Bono

It’s disheartening to overhear full-grown adults use “scary” to describe everything from phone bills to cigarette smoke. The emotion filters down to become fear of eating the wrong food, not working hard enough, or being too fat, not rich, or smart enough. Compulsive fear erodes into stress. While I sympathize to a point, it’s time people started living like cats. A homeless feline with a lion haircut and a lousy prognosis was to me a perfect example of how to make the most of being alive.

Days of paranoia crawled by. Black limos slid around the corner to the UN Building, which had been barricaded like a medieval castle. Did they know something? Down at Grand Central rows of helmeted men wore black bulletproof gear and carried assault rifles. It was like living in a Star Wars movie.

People were warned to report suspicious packages, but at night the streets were lined with the same old piles of garbage bags, each one large enough to harbor several bombs. They were so much part of the nocturnal landscape New Yorkers hardly noticed them.

There was collective relief after the first shoot-out when Tamerlan Tsarnaev, age 26, was run over and killed by his younger brother, Dzhokhar, in a stolen car. Anxiety returned to gnaw at the nation’s soul with the announcement that Dzhokhar, age 19, was still on the run. When he was discovered hiding inside a boat in a suburban backyard, the saga ground to a conclusion. It had been a long four days—and would have been longer if the murderous brothers had achieved their goal of traveling to New York to bomb Times Square.

Chapter Twenty-seven

HOLDING AND BREATHING

A cat has many lives to choose from.

I sometimes wonder how I would have handled the aftermath of the Boston bombings without Bono’s warm and trusting companionship. When things are in turmoil, sometimes all you have to do is stay still, hold someone you love . . . and breathe.

Basking in the sun on his pillow, my feline friend reminded me to savor the moment. As I watched him skip about the apartment, he taught me the most powerful way to experience life is from a place of gratitude. He’d released the wounds of the past and was simply happy to be away from the stresses of living in a shelter.

As for his future, I was doing enough worrying for the both of us.

Returning Bono to Bideawee to spend the rest of his life in a cage would feel like the ultimate failure. In a way, we were both prisoners on the run. I’d come to New York to escape a cage of my own making. With just ten days before the lease expired on our pet-friendly apartment, time was running out for both of us.

I pictured myself bringing his carrier back along the river to Bideawee, and burst into tears. But this is America, I thought, dabbing my eyes with a towel. Bono’s story had to have a happy ending.

When I called Michaela, the warmth in her voice made me want to cry again.

“The blog’s not working,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Vida tells me more than 22 million people are reading your posts.”

The number was mind-boggling.

“That can’t be right,” I said. “Surely she counted the zeros wrong?”

“According to Vida, the number’s on the conservative side,” Michaela said.

I tried to imagine the entire population of Australia squeezed into our tiny studio. One thing was certain. There wouldn’t be enough cups to go round. If the figure was right, and Michaela assured me there was no reason to doubt it, everything I’d ever felt about the Internet was confirmed. Millions of voyeuristic eyeballs could roll but hearts remained untouched.

“It’s done nothing for Bono other than make him famous,” I said. “He’s no closer to finding a home than he ever was.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. My friend was probably editing a worthy manuscript that was about to change the world.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

I had to admire Michaela. Compared to her, Pollyanna was a pessimist.

“I have a friend who’s interested in meeting him,” she added. “I forwarded Bono’s photo to her. She can’t stop oohing and ahhing.”

Her words had the impact of a feather landing on an elephant’s hide. The whole world was infatuated with Bono. He needed love with its sleeves rolled up.

* * *

The days lurched into fast-forward as the city settled back into its old rhythms. I became like a mouse in a wheel scurrying from museum to theater to landmark while I tried to make up my mind. Once the lease had run out on the apartment, I’d have to return Bono to the shelter and fly back to Australia.

Unless, I went for option three and rented somewhere to stay until I found another pet-friendly apartment. Maybe Michaela would agree to have Bono for a week or two, or he could move back temporarily to Bideawee until I found us a home.