Bono

Meanwhile, the handbag salesmen would be setting up their stall on the corner, and the beggar with one leg would be turning his mind to the front steps of an unprepossessing building with a red door.

Along the river at Bideawee, Jon and his staff were no doubt welcoming a new batch of needy animals. With the warmer weather it would be kitten season by now.

Tears welled in my eyes. It had been a privilege to be part of New York’s animal-loving community. I was going to miss them all. Thanks to Vida’s and Michaela’s determination, I’d been able to share Bono’s story with the world.

“You’ll be back,” Philip said, leaning across the seat and stroking my hand.

It had been an easy decision to make in the end. New York and the people I’d met there were magical. I adored them, but nothing could surpass the promise of spending the rest of my life with a wonderful man who’d tolerated my quirks through two decades and yet still claimed to love me. There was no doubt I loved him back. Together we’d built a home and a family, who miraculously seemed to like us.

“Jonah will be pleased to see you,” Philip said, as we boarded the plane.

“I hope he doesn’t punish me for being away so long,” I said clicking the safety belt over my lap.

“I’m sure he won’t,” Philip said.

As the engines roared, I felt a surge of excitement. It wasn’t the thrill of leaving for the unknown this time, but the thought of returning to our family and a feline who were very much loved.

From my window seat, I gazed down at the forest of skyscrapers and imagined a small black lion cat somewhere down there.

Because of Bono, part of me would always be in New York.

Chapter Thirty-eight

FIVE GUARDIANS

There’s something wonderful about being owned by a cat.

There have been enough significant cats in my life to count on the fingers of one hand. All five had excellent manners (when they chose to use them), a talent for enjoying life on their own terms, and an admirable capacity for affection.

The first was black and white with fur too long for convenience. Like many cats with Persian blood, he hated being manhandled, particularly by children. I could hardly blame him. If our body hair grew a foot long and giants tried to grab us, we’d feel the same way. We named him Sylvester after the cartoon cat who was the arch nemesis of Tweety Bird. Sylvester lived up to his namesake. He idled his afternoons away dozing on top of my budgie’s cage. Poor little Joey froze on his perch and turned a brighter shade of green while the cat flicked his tail across the bars. Sylvester didn’t have to be psychic to figure out Mum didn’t like cats. In return, he pooped in her high heeled shoes whenever possible. It must have involved a lot of skill to position his posterior over her precarious six-inch heels. The pointy toes allowed little room for error. But he concealed his weapons artfully, and they had the desired effect every time. Sylvester taught me that the un-dercat, if he thinks creatively, can have power.

Dad’s opinion of cats differed from Mum’s. When he found a tabby kitten wandering around the gasworks one day, he bundled him up and drove him home in the backseat of our old Ford Zephyr. Once inside the house, the kitten cowered under an armchair. I longed for him to feel safe enough to show himself. When he finally did, I noticed the marking on his forehead formed an M. When I begged to call him Mickey, our parents were too distracted to put up an argument. My brother later pointed out Mickey had six digits on his front paws. In Europe, it’s said polydactyl cats were often killed as witches’ familiars. They were popular on ships, however, and Ernest Hemingway loved them. Years later, when we visited Hemingway’s cats in Florida, they were beautiful and gloriously offhand. Though they were descended from literary aristocracy, I loved how they reserved the right to lie in the grass and behave like cats.

Mickey became my first soul cat. He seemed to know when I needed the warm touch of his fur. When I arrived home after another confusing day at school (What’s the point of algebra?), he’d be waiting for me at the top of the steps on the veranda. He understood everything, and asked nothing in return. Mickey taught me there is no such thing as “just a cat.”

After I’d nearly grown up and rushed into marriage, our older son Sam talked me into taking on a small black cat he named Cleo. When she stood over us after his death, I learned about the healing power of cats and their connection to other worlds.

Through living with these three cats I learned many things, including how to appreciate subtle energy forms. They taught me to respect body language, to read the light around animals and people. To demand something of a cat is to invite disaster. It’s far better to soften your heart and let the relationship evolve.