Bono

I’d never imagined cats had a sense of destiny, but years after Cleo died, when I was recovering from cancer, my sister, Mary, took me to a pet shop. A crazy clown of a Siamese kitten scrambled up the wire, reached out his paw, and touched my hand. In that moment, I knew he was telling me to take him home.

Jonah is a writer’s cat. He’s been doing his job for ten years now, and he takes it seriously. After his morning pill and it’s just the two of us, he trots around after me. If by mid-morning I’m still wandering the house with piles of laundry and other excuses not to work, he cuts in front of me and, with the expertise of a sheepdog, herds me into my study.

Once I’ve settled in front of the computer with a coffee, he emits a satisfied meow and leaps on my lap. Jonah snoozes there for the rest of the day, occasionally interrupting me to stroll over the computer keyboard, or wrestle with the printer cables. Whenever I’m writing, I prefer to shut myself off from the world, but Jonah won’t hear of it. If there’s a knock on the door, he scampers down the hall to find out who’s there. He welcomes workmen, neighbors, and religious salesmen with equal enthusiasm. He’s not so keen on younger visitors. One glimpse of a child and he’s off to hide in his cat run.

We have long and vocal conversations. He has opinions about everything. In the evenings, Jonah isn’t satisfied unless I’m sitting in the brown armchair and Philip’s in the red one. If we break the rules and swap, our obsessive cat yowls in our faces until we exchange seats. He adores watching television, especially wildlife shows viewed from the best upholstered lap he can find, which is usually mine.

Living with Jonah has taught me to reconsider reincarnation as a concept. He’s a human trapped in a cat’s body.

The fifth significant cat in my life is Bono. My fantasy about fostering a dozy old tortoiseshell was laughable. A little rock star lion was the cat I needed. We found each other at a time when we were both a bit washed up and doubtful about the future. Bono reminded me that no matter how patchy the past has been, it’s essential to greet each day with an arabesque and a purr. He introduced me to extraordinary people, and taught me that no matter how desperate a situation, there’s a place for miracles.

From Bono I also learned that sometimes love means having to say good-bye.

Chapter Thirty-nine

WAITING FOR BONO

A cat cannot cross the same street twice.

Michaela kept her promise and fed me regular updates of Bono’s new life. No longer a shelter cat, he was living like a sultan with countless toys and a seven-tier scratching post. Under Monique’s doting care, the only water he drank was purified. Black cats are notoriously difficult to photograph, but Michaela assured me he’d put on weight and his fur was glossy. I was delighted to hear that when people visited, Bono was quite the host these days. He’d also expanded his role to become a therapy animal, regularly staying with Monique’s elderly parents, who adored him. Bono’s new vet insisted he was closer to 8 than 5 years old. Most important, his health was excellent. Meanwhile, back at home, the fur on Jonah’s leg had grown back.

I wasn’t the only one hanging out for Michaela’s reports. Since our time together in New York, Lydia and I were much closer. She’d moved into a townhouse with Ramon and they seemed very happy. Ramon tended a forest of pot plants, the closest they were allowed to a cat due to their landlord’s animal ban. Whenever Lydia and I met, she’d be toting her jungle print handbag. I took it as secret code between us that whatever else happened, we’d always have Bono and New York.

Though Bono didn’t need me anymore, I ached to see him again. Two years after our farewell, I found an excuse to return to New York in May 2015. I tried to book the old studio, but it wasn’t available anymore. After several wild goose chases, I settled for a place on the Upper East Side. It belonged to Dan, who was keen on water sports, which could mean anything these days.

Even though it was late at night, the cab driver seemed to know exactly where to take me this time. He glided to a halt outside an old terraced building in what seemed a civilized neighborhood. I clattered my bag up a few steps to enter my base for the following week. Decorated in shades of brown, it was an exact replica of the photos I’d seen on the website. There was the luxury of a separate living room, and the bedroom opened onto a small, paved courtyard. A row of cushions sat on the bed under a huge photograph of a wave that threatened to unfurl any moment and swamp the room. I put it down to Dan’s surfing interests. A hint of shampoo hovered in the air. I almost missed the raffish smell of the old place.