Bono

Monique said that was fine. She needed to talk to Berry first, anyway. Bono licked the back of her hand. Goosebumps prickled up my arms. Whatever her husband had to say about it, that woman and cat were meant for each other.

Chapter Thirty-one

HEALERS IN FUR

A cat steps into a life at the perfect moment.

After Monique left, Bono nestled into my lap and draped his tail over my knee. Whenever the city became too loud and frantic, I’d come to rely on him as my anchor of serenity.

Though New York was dazzling, Bono had woken me up to the important things in life—kindness, love, patience, respect. He demonstrated it’s possible to let go of past hurt and savor each moment with gratitude; that even a death sentence doesn’t steal away the right to be playful. I couldn’t imagine living in New York without him bouncing along at my side.

The more I thought about him and Monique, the less I pondered possible mystical connections between them. There was only one fairy godmother in their story. Replaying conversations I’d had with Michaela, I realized she’d mentioned someone could be waiting in the wings several times. For some reason I’d just refused to listen.

Though I was full of hope for Bono, my insides ached at the thought of letting him go. He’d touched my heart in ways that would stay with me forever. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to him, New York, or Michaela and her inspiring friends.

I wondered if, given the chance to cool off, Monique might decide not to risk setting herself up for another heartbreak. Onyx had obviously meant the world to her, and she had implied he’d helped her through some tough experiences.

Time and again, I hear stories from people who’ve been emotionally rescued by their animals. When humans are crushed or in physical pain, four-legged champions seem to know they’re needed at a profound level.

I’m always moved when readers write in to share how a special animal has impacted their lives. A woman who devotes her life to caring for her severely paralyzed son told me their Abyssinian cat is the only thing that makes him smile. She said she did not know how she or her son would cope without their cat’s healing presence.

Another woman told me how heartbroken she was when her cat-loving sister committed suicide. At the funeral, she was astonished when a ginger cat appeared from behind a row of cypresses and circled the open grave. Tears melted into smiles when the feline leapt into the woman’s arms. To her it seemed the cat was a messenger from beyond the grave. As she stroked the cat’s fur, she could hear her sister’s voice reassuring her, saying her anguish was over now and that some day they’d be together again.

A mother whose young daughter had died wrote to say their cat Lily was her main source of healing.

The positive power of felines is experienced in every part of the world. From Seoul, Korea, to Atlanta, Georgia, cats are stepping into peoples’ lives and going about their healing work.

Bono had helped me at a profoundly emotional level, too. He’d shown how wounds of the past are best forgiven and released. Much as I’d craved the thrill of living in New York, that little cat was living proof that the greatest excitement is to simply be alive and to glide into each day with an open heart.

I wasn’t ready to part from him. Still, there was a chance Monique might visit Bideawee and find another, less needy feline. Or her husband might refuse to take on a cat with compromised health.

The deal was far from sealed.

Chapter Thirty-two

BRANDY AND BIG NOTING

A cat can be led astray.

The author of Love Story, Erich Segal, couldn’t have been more wrong when he wrote, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Love means always saying sorry. Philip had been off the grid on a work retreat for a couple of days, but I figured he’d be back home by now. As soon as our time zones converged, I’d have another try at Skyping him.

Being the “least likely to stay married” couple had not always been easy, but it had compelled us to work harder for the relationship. Allowances had been made. He gave up encouraging me to train me for fun runs. I stopped trying to make him sing in tune. Most of our rifts were healed with laughter and chemistry. Whenever there were misunderstandings, we’d learned to let go and trust.

I pulled on my jacket and headed downstairs.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Holly Golightly!” an unmistakable voice echoed up the stairwell.

Patrick was in his usual position, leaning against his doorframe, cigarette dangling from yellowed fingers. Plodding down the stairs toward him, I waited for him to change my name to Helen Goheavily.

“Wasn’t she some kind of call girl?” I said, trying to get the better of him for once.