May 15, 2015--New York, New York: Cat On the Run
"Is that a cat racing around the book stalls at the Strand? I mean, not a street cat. It has a collar."
"I can't see it," I said, straining to look through traffic to the other side of Broadway.
"There, under that bookcase," Rona stretched to point. "Darting back and forth as if possessed."
Finally spotting it, I said, "I've never seen anything like that. Only feral cats here. And even that's unusual. No one in the city lets a cat out on her own or takes one for a walk or anything."
Now the cat was heading toward us, zigzagging in a attempt to avoid the cars and trucks that were slamming on their breaks to avoid hitting her.
About ten yards behind the cat a man raced after it in hot pursuit. The cat was running hard and it took all he had to keep up with it. He too was almost run down by a careening motor cyclist.
Reaching our side of the street, the cat raced halfway across a plank that spanned a construction site, over a deep cut in the sidewalk, and then came to a halt, panting visibly, but feeling protected as if she knew it would not be safe for the man to walk out on the plank. It was not secured and would likely, with him, tumble into the excavation.
He too was panting. We had stopped to watch right at that corner, quite close to where he stood, half bent over, gasping for breath. The cat, though quivering, still glared at him.
"That yours?" I asked.
With two head pumps he nodded, still bent over and panting. Sweat and saliva dripped from him.
"I wouldn't go out on that board," I advised. "Looks dangerous."
That seems to mobilize him again and he defiantly, as if to show her and me, tapped one toe tentatively on his end of the plank. It wobbled, almost coming loose from where it had been placed by the workers who were nowhere in sight.
"Fuckin cat," he muttered, spitting toward it. The cat, clearly familiar with him and his behavior, rose on its haunches and looked as if it was planning also to hiss and spit.
"So it must be yours," I said, not knowing what to say to be compassionate or helpful. It was hot and we wanted to get to the Union Square Market before some of the vendors were sold out.
"All she does is eat, drink, and piss. Shits too."
"That's what they all do," I said, Rona was tugging on my sleeve. "That's all any of us do when you get right down to it." I thought to try something that, if not sincere, felt philosophical.
"See that over there?" He pointed halfway up the block toward 13th Street.
"Can't say that I do."
"Well, that's where I live."
I looked up the street and didn't see anything but commercials buildings and street-level stores.
"Not up there but down there." He pointed at the sidewalk about 30 feet north of where we were standing. He launched a glob of phlegm toward Broadway.
I still wasn't following him. By then Rona was pulling hard on my shirt and whispered, "I want to get to the market before some of the vendors leave."
The cat stayed put. As if to taunt him, she began licking herself.
"Without her I have nothing going for myself."
"I'm not following you." I was sincerely confused. No longer feigning interest.
"That's where I live and, if you want to call it that, work." He continued to point toward the sidewalk.
"I'm not . . ." But in truth I was, and so stopped stammering.
"No one would even stop to piss on me if it weren't for her." He snapped his fingers at the cat but she didn't move. She kept licking herself.
It dawned on me finally that he "lived" on the sheets of cardboard spread on the sidewalk. Next to them was a plastic garbage bag full of his few things. And a bowl for water for the cat and what looked like an upturned cap in which I imagined there would be a handful of spare change.
As the weather had warmed up recently, a number of streets near us had filled up with homeless people, some with rather elaborate setups. We must have walked by him numerous times on the way back and forth to the market, always, as usual, with eyes averted.
"It's a life," he said, shrugging his shoulders as if to explain or apologize. "And the only reason any folks toss me a quarter is because of her. They care more about the fuckin cat than me. But I get it," he wanted to say more, "I'm nothing to look at and she can be pretty cute. Especially when she's hungry. Which is all the time."
"I think I understand," I said feeling contrite.
"Think about it--people care more about cats and dogs than humans. Not that there's that much human about me." It felt as if he wanted me to join him in feeling sorry for himself.
"They leave their savings to the ASPCA when they die but won't even send a check to programs for the homeless. Not that I think about myself that way. Homeless I mean. Though to tell you the truth I don't know what else to call the way I live. For Christ sake I sleep on a fuckin refrigerator carton and beg for nickels. Not much of a home."
He was doing it again and so I was happy to see the cat raise herself up, stretch, and then dart toward him. Once more back across the plank.
He lunged at her, trying to scoop her up in his arms. Again, he almost tumbled into the excavation. Leaping off the plank, the cat cut sharply north up Broadway with him again in literally hot pursuit. I was beginning to think he would give himself a stroke or heart attack.
But just as he was seemingly about to collapse, the door to a 7-Eleven opened and the cat darted into the shop. He ran after her and though the sun was glinting on the windows, making it hard to see what was going on inside, the fact that agitated customers were pouring out suggested that the cat and the man were creating havoc.
"Can we go now?" Rona again asked. "Why did you have to get involved with that? I mean I'm sympathetic and all that but you know I'm not feeling well today and want to get our shopping done and then back into bed. I mean, on any other day, I'd be the one who would need to be dragged away."
Which was true.
By then things seemed to have calmed down in the store and in the next moment the door swung open and he stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the sun. In his arms he was cradling the cat, who was audibly purring, and as he got closer to us I could see he was sobbing.
"I can't see it," I said, straining to look through traffic to the other side of Broadway.
"There, under that bookcase," Rona stretched to point. "Darting back and forth as if possessed."
Finally spotting it, I said, "I've never seen anything like that. Only feral cats here. And even that's unusual. No one in the city lets a cat out on her own or takes one for a walk or anything."
Now the cat was heading toward us, zigzagging in a attempt to avoid the cars and trucks that were slamming on their breaks to avoid hitting her.
About ten yards behind the cat a man raced after it in hot pursuit. The cat was running hard and it took all he had to keep up with it. He too was almost run down by a careening motor cyclist.
Reaching our side of the street, the cat raced halfway across a plank that spanned a construction site, over a deep cut in the sidewalk, and then came to a halt, panting visibly, but feeling protected as if she knew it would not be safe for the man to walk out on the plank. It was not secured and would likely, with him, tumble into the excavation.
He too was panting. We had stopped to watch right at that corner, quite close to where he stood, half bent over, gasping for breath. The cat, though quivering, still glared at him.
"That yours?" I asked.
With two head pumps he nodded, still bent over and panting. Sweat and saliva dripped from him.
"I wouldn't go out on that board," I advised. "Looks dangerous."
That seems to mobilize him again and he defiantly, as if to show her and me, tapped one toe tentatively on his end of the plank. It wobbled, almost coming loose from where it had been placed by the workers who were nowhere in sight.
"Fuckin cat," he muttered, spitting toward it. The cat, clearly familiar with him and his behavior, rose on its haunches and looked as if it was planning also to hiss and spit.
"So it must be yours," I said, not knowing what to say to be compassionate or helpful. It was hot and we wanted to get to the Union Square Market before some of the vendors were sold out.
"All she does is eat, drink, and piss. Shits too."
"That's what they all do," I said, Rona was tugging on my sleeve. "That's all any of us do when you get right down to it." I thought to try something that, if not sincere, felt philosophical.
"See that over there?" He pointed halfway up the block toward 13th Street.
"Can't say that I do."
"Well, that's where I live."
I looked up the street and didn't see anything but commercials buildings and street-level stores.
"Not up there but down there." He pointed at the sidewalk about 30 feet north of where we were standing. He launched a glob of phlegm toward Broadway.
I still wasn't following him. By then Rona was pulling hard on my shirt and whispered, "I want to get to the market before some of the vendors leave."
The cat stayed put. As if to taunt him, she began licking herself.
"Without her I have nothing going for myself."
"I'm not following you." I was sincerely confused. No longer feigning interest.
"That's where I live and, if you want to call it that, work." He continued to point toward the sidewalk.
"I'm not . . ." But in truth I was, and so stopped stammering.
"No one would even stop to piss on me if it weren't for her." He snapped his fingers at the cat but she didn't move. She kept licking herself.
It dawned on me finally that he "lived" on the sheets of cardboard spread on the sidewalk. Next to them was a plastic garbage bag full of his few things. And a bowl for water for the cat and what looked like an upturned cap in which I imagined there would be a handful of spare change.
As the weather had warmed up recently, a number of streets near us had filled up with homeless people, some with rather elaborate setups. We must have walked by him numerous times on the way back and forth to the market, always, as usual, with eyes averted.
"It's a life," he said, shrugging his shoulders as if to explain or apologize. "And the only reason any folks toss me a quarter is because of her. They care more about the fuckin cat than me. But I get it," he wanted to say more, "I'm nothing to look at and she can be pretty cute. Especially when she's hungry. Which is all the time."
"I think I understand," I said feeling contrite.
"Think about it--people care more about cats and dogs than humans. Not that there's that much human about me." It felt as if he wanted me to join him in feeling sorry for himself.
"They leave their savings to the ASPCA when they die but won't even send a check to programs for the homeless. Not that I think about myself that way. Homeless I mean. Though to tell you the truth I don't know what else to call the way I live. For Christ sake I sleep on a fuckin refrigerator carton and beg for nickels. Not much of a home."
He was doing it again and so I was happy to see the cat raise herself up, stretch, and then dart toward him. Once more back across the plank.
He lunged at her, trying to scoop her up in his arms. Again, he almost tumbled into the excavation. Leaping off the plank, the cat cut sharply north up Broadway with him again in literally hot pursuit. I was beginning to think he would give himself a stroke or heart attack.
But just as he was seemingly about to collapse, the door to a 7-Eleven opened and the cat darted into the shop. He ran after her and though the sun was glinting on the windows, making it hard to see what was going on inside, the fact that agitated customers were pouring out suggested that the cat and the man were creating havoc.
"Can we go now?" Rona again asked. "Why did you have to get involved with that? I mean I'm sympathetic and all that but you know I'm not feeling well today and want to get our shopping done and then back into bed. I mean, on any other day, I'd be the one who would need to be dragged away."
Which was true.
By then things seemed to have calmed down in the store and in the next moment the door swung open and he stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the sun. In his arms he was cradling the cat, who was audibly purring, and as he got closer to us I could see he was sobbing.
Labels: 7-Eleven, Broadway, Cats, Homeless, Homelessness, New York City, Pets, Strand Bookstore, Union Square
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:06 AM
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