Moonbeam
When we first opened our shop BraTenders, it sat above a meat market, a produce market, and a pizza shop at 400 West 42nd St. This block was being hailed as an extension of the theater district to the far west side, and a perfect starter home for my burgeoning business.
We decided early on that we needed a resident exterminator — and thought, why not give a home to an animal in need? My vet connected us with Companion Animal Placement (CAP), who put me in touch with one of their foster moms. That’s how I met Moonbeam.
Maryanne, his foster mom, told me he was a “special boy” looking for a special home. She explained that Moonbeam’s story with CAP began when he was just a kitten. Somehow, he had scrambled out onto the ledge of a sixth-floor apartment. A woman across the way happened to be gazing out her window at a brilliant full moon and saw the tiny figure perched there. The moonlight caught his startling blue eyes — and that’s how he got his name.
As a kitten, Moonbeam was easily adoptable. But every home that took him in soon lost him — he was an escape artist of the highest order. Each time he vanished, CAP volunteers took to the streets calling his name, peering under cars and up trees, chanting, “Moonbeam, c’mon boy, Moooon-eeeeee.” And, clever fellow that he was, he always came running. By the time I met him, he was three years old, labeled with “behavior problems,” and no longer anyone’s first choice.
Maryanne was a remarkable foster. She lived in a huge loft in the Flatiron District with more than fifteen cats and even hired an animal communicator to figure out what Moonbeam wanted from life. According to this psychic, Moonbeam wasn’t trying to be naughty — he was curious and needed guidance. He hated harsh punishment, disliked houses with dogs (they got to go on walks while he was stuck inside), and didn’t get along with other cats — especially since, being so handsome, they tended to pick fights with him. What he wanted was to be an only child, to have freedom, and to be adored. Closets were his safe haven.
When Mary told him he might live in a shop, not a house, he supposedly thought that was just fine. In fact, he revealed — at least through the psychic — that he’d been a Latin lover in a past life, and was delighted by the idea of living in a lingerie shop surrounded by women. Customers adored him, and he basked in the attention. I even thought of renaming him “Romeow.” Some customers stopped in just to say hello to him!
Moonbeam’s coat was tawny, white, and silver, but it was his brilliant blue eyes — courtesy of a Siamese parent — that won hearts. He could be quite vocal, following us around the shop, parking himself on top of whatever project we were working on, as if to supervise. He was fast, prone to bolting out the door, so we began walking him up and down the stairs of our building and even trained him on a harness. He was, in so many ways, a dog in a cat’s body.
He knew if someone was a cat hater, he’d met many, and liked to stroll into the fitting room in the midst of me doing a bra fitting. One client was so freaked out, she jumped into my arms, and almost sent us both toppling.
I loved him fiercely. Though I resisted the urge to smother, he grew into a lap cat, curling up on Al’s lap in our lipstick-red lingerie lounge chairs, or gazing at me with such intensity I sometimes felt he saw my soul.
And then, suddenly, it all unraveled.
We had just returned from a grueling trip to Florida, visiting Al’s mother as dementia slowly claimed her. We were at the point where her short term memory no longer functioned, and every time she looked at me, said, I know you! If she turned around, and focused on something else for a moment, then noticed me, she’d repeat that mantra. I felt sad, also intrigued, that this woman remembered me, out of all the children, their spouses, the greats and grands, (whom she no longer recognized) the people nearest and dearest to her, who protected and defended their place in the pecking order, she remembered me, a mere daughter in law.
When we came back, Moonbeam was limping. We packed him into his carrier and hit the rush hour streets of NYC, en route to the east side vets’ office. The vet thought it was a soft tissue injury, and told us to keep an eye on it. Exhausted, our flight back from Florida was a nightmare, I considered taking him home, but my other cats would have harassed him, and I thought he’d be more comfortable in his own space. I nearly stayed the night at the shop with him, but soon succumbed to emotional exhaustion and went home for a few hours sleep.
The next morning, our employee Angela called: Moonbeam was sitting in the fitting room, unresponsive. We rushed to him, and after hours at the ER, the news was devastating. He had suffered a series of strokes, was blind, and for all intents and purposes, brain-dead. The doctors explained the measures we could take, but I stopped listening after those words. I could not torture him with needles and interventions.
A vet tech brought him to me. I held him, whispering, “Moonie, my beautiful boy,” stroking his ears as tears poured down my face. We stayed with him as the final injection brought him peace. I buried my face in his fur until his body went slack.
Moonbeam taught me as much about love and responsibility as any person ever has. I sometimes look at his picture and cry, remembering the bond we shared. He came into my life in the glow of a full moon, and even now, I like to think he left a little of that moonlight behind — a reminder of the love that endures, even after goodbye.
A NYC Shop Cat
