Bono

“We’ve been expecting you,” he said, pointing me at a comfortable chair in the lobby while he called her up to announce my arrival. This building was worlds away from the scruffy studio Bono and I had hung out in. No wonder Michaela had seemed a bit shocked when she visited us. When she appeared and escorted me to the elevator, I was almost overwhelmed with nervousness.

“Is he still scared of strangers?” I asked as the elevator sighed shut.

There’s only so much a person can ask of a cat. I was well aware the whole human-cat relationship is based on whether or not a cat is inclined to engage with you. Not the other way around.

For me, Bono had transformed New York into a home with a heart on the door. If there’s such a thing as “meant to be together,” we’d been it for that magical month. I loved him as much as I did back then, but no way could I hope for any form of acknowledgment now. As a form of protection, I repeated the mantra “he’s not going to recognize you” over and over inside my head.

“He usually greets me at the front door,” Michaela said.

That didn’t sound like the same animal who used to scurry under a bed at the rattle of a door handle. I held my breath as we stepped out of the elevator. Across the corridor, a door creaked open a crack. I waited for Monique to appear. Instead, down at ground level, the head of a noble black feline emerged. With the confidence of a lord, he pushed the door open. Tail aloft in greeting, he padded toward us.

“This can’t be Bono!” I whispered, crouching on the floor and offering my hand.

To my delight, he stepped forward and honoured me with a gracious nudge. If indeed it was Bono, he no longer sported a lion haircut. His coat was a gleaming curtain. Exquisitely groomed and glowing with health, this animal was worthy of a blue ribbon in anyone’s pet show.

I hesitated. This had to be some kind of joke the two women had cooked up. Most likely Monique kept more than one cat, and the real Bono was cowering in a corner somewhere inside the apartment.

Just when I was about to call Michaela’s bluff, the cat raised his head and fixed me with a pair of amber traffic-light eyes. They were bright and clear. The unhealthy-looking oily film I used to worry about had disappeared. The magnificent creature emitted a musical mew. He then turned and stretched his back leg in an unmistakable arabesque.

* * *

Bono may not have recognized me, but Monique and Berry did. We exchanged hugs and laughter as their feline master strolled through their apartment. This home betrayed the obsessions of its owners. Aside from the seven-tier cat tower I’d heard about, the place was scattered with catnip toys and fishing lines. Monique and Berry’s apartment had the trappings of an entire pet shop—all for one cat.

None of us could take our eyes off Bono as he settled himself into a cardboard box.

“He loves boxes,” Monique said.

I felt a jab of regret. Bono and I hadn’t been together long enough for me to discover he had a thing for boxes. Heaven knows, if anyone had told me, I’d have found him twenty. On the other hand, maybe he’d needed the security of Monique’s love in order to let go and relish the joy of cardboard. My mixed emotions dissolved when I saw the transformation in him. The scrappy little rescue cat had morphed into a rock star.

“He’s such a friendly little guy,” Monique said. “And his health is great.”

The proudest of mothers, Monique smiled down at Bono.

“When Monique and Berry go away Bono sometimes stays with my three cats upstairs,” Michaela added.

“That’s if my parents will let him,” Berry said. “They never taught us about therapy cats in med school. But Bono’s definitely become one for my parents. They’re always asking if he can stay with them. They adore him. It’s really opened my eyes to the power of therapy cats.”

I was delighted Berry’s devotion was so evident considering he’d been half tricked into adopting Bono. Maybe like most men, he’d taken a little longer to get the hang of parenthood.

After a glass of wine, we left Bono to ride the elevator up for dinner at Michaela’s. Not for the first time, I was impressed by how comfortably New Yorkers have adapted to living vertically. Gene greeted us and poured more wine, as I stood momentarily speechless in front of the view from the living room window.

The Empire State Building felt almost close enough to touch. To one side of it, the tip of the Chrysler Building peeked out like a cheeky cousin. Apricot-tinged clouds gathered high above rooftop gardens. I smiled at the quirky wooden water towers nestling on top of almost every building. Shaped like medieval haystacks, they give the skyline a whimsical air but, as every New Yorker knows, their function is twenty-first century. Every building taller than six stories must have a tower and pumping system to provide water pressure.