Bono

On a recent visit to Japan, nothing could have prepared me for the devastation near Sendai where the tsunami had risen up and swallowed the countryside in 2011. Years after the event, I was awestruck by the vast tracts of coastal land that were still uninhabitable. Thousands of people remained homeless and grieving for lost ones. Though the scale of loss was greater than anything I’d experienced, I found many people wanted nothing more than to share their stories. It’s such a basic need, I wondered if arranging tragic events into a logical shape is a way of helping the brain adjust to trauma. At a human level, I felt honored every time a stranger from this cultivated and restrained society wanted to share their pain. Often, all people need is for someone to listen deeply with compassion.

One of the unspoken horrors of the tsunami was the loss of so many animals. Perhaps there had been one or two miracles like Bono’s, but in most cases there was no time, no hope to rescue them. My hosts showed me more graves than I’d seen in a lifetime. Incense hovered over rows of gleaming black headstones. An old man bent to place yellow chrysanthemums on a grave. A small family group gathered in silent tears around another.

Many people who have survived ill health and tragedy remind me of cats. Like Bono in his cage at Bideawee, they accept they may have to spend a long time imprisoned in grief. That doesn’t stop them bouncing out to chase a sock occasionally. It’s almost as if the harrowing experiences they’ve been through have equipped them to savor the delight of being alive,

Though Bono’s future was limited, he wasn’t wired to worry, or to fret over how things might have worked out differently if he hadn’t lost his home in Hurricane Sandy.

The lion cat greeted the morning sun with curiosity each day. Every moment was brimming with adventure for him. Whether it was a cockroach or a fluffy toy cat, he was not disappointed.

To Bono every day was a good one, simply because he was in it. He could be mesmerized by a reflection of light on the wall, and spend hours chasing a scrunched up ball of paper.

Bono knew how to look after himself. He spent hours grooming and rearranging his lionish haircut, followed by an afternoon’s sun baking on his favourite white cushion with the black polka dots.

Yet Bono stayed connected to his wild side. He was resilient and could outsprint me whenever he felt like it.

He was slow to make assumptions about people and, if necessary, fast to disappear.

Though it took me a while to discover this, Bono knew how to love. He was brave, too. No matter what cruelty he had suffered in the past, he still had enough residual trust to embrace Lydia, and later me, with great affection.

He was a good listener.

Bono was willing to forgive and move on. He understood life is always changing and ultimately you have to flow with it.

He knew life is precious because we are all fragile, and our presence on Earth fleeting. He was too engaged with living to worry about dying.

Through the anxious days after the Boston bombings, Bono knew I needed comforting. I didn’t have to ask for his warmth and companionship. He made sure I never felt alone. He was never “too busy” to help a friend.

Bono approached each moment from a place of gratitude, which gave him strength and natural grace. Because of that, people warmed to him. Then the people who liked Bono started warming to each other.

At night, he sat on the window ledge and gazed up at the moon and wondered at the miracle of being alive.

Like all felines, Bono had great style. Whatever happens, I aim to spend the rest of my life living like a cat.

Chapter Forty-two

I REMEMBER YOU WELL

Rescue cat becomes rock star.

Just when I’d accepted Bono and I weren’t meant to see each other again, Michaela called with a breath-stopping invitation.

She said Bono would be delighted to host drinks at Monique and Berry’s apartment, followed by dinner for us all at hers. Not since my audience with the Dalai Lama had I felt so happy and nervous at the same time.

There’s so much to love about the Chelsea district where Michaela and Monique live. A happy soup of immigrants, gays, and creative types give the place a tolerant bohemianism. Like every corner of New York, the neighborhood has more than its share of fame. Look no farther than the redbricked Chelsea Hotel on 222 West 23rd. Dylan Thomas was staying there when he suffered a terminal case of pneumonia in 1953. Years later, the body of Sid Vicious’s girlfriend, Nancy Spun-gen, was found in a room. Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, and Charles Bukowski all sweated ink inside its walls.

The doorman inside Michaela’s building greeted me with a smile.