By Denise Reich
It is impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more kittens.
~Cynthia E. Varnado
I was not even remotely pleased with the way the afternoon was going. My two kittens, Rumi and Bogie, just needed a simple veterinary follow-up, but it was probably going to take hours. Things always seemed to be complicated with them. I'd recently adopted the two black-and-white tuxedo brothers from a local cat rescue, and they were still receiving medical care from the organization. I was grateful for that, but the veterinary practice that the rescue used was on the other side of Manhattan, and it was going to require several bus and train changes to get there.
It is impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more kittens.
~Cynthia E. Varnado
I was not even remotely pleased with the way the afternoon was going. My two kittens, Rumi and Bogie, just needed a simple veterinary follow-up, but it was probably going to take hours. Things always seemed to be complicated with them. I'd recently adopted the two black-and-white tuxedo brothers from a local cat rescue, and they were still receiving medical care from the organization. I was grateful for that, but the veterinary practice that the rescue used was on the other side of Manhattan, and it was going to require several bus and train changes to get there.
I was tired, run-down and sick of winter, and the very last thing I wanted to do was go on a long subway ride, particularly at rush hour. However, there was no way around it. I sighed as I loaded Rumi and Bogie into the carrier, tucked a warm blanket around them and gave them a toy to share. They were only four months old, and they were so tiny that they could easily share the space. I bundled up and trudged into the cold January afternoon, kittens in tow.
School had just gotten out, and the bus was packed with kids. The ones sitting closest to me were being loud and somewhat disrespectful. I rubbed my head and winced as their laughter and shrieks burrowed right into my brain; the beginnings of migraine were hovering just behind my eyes. Neither Rumi nor Bogie seemed to mind; they simply peered out of their carrier with their large amber eyes and took it all in.
One of the girls looked in my direction and noticed the kittens. Her friends followed suit, and suddenly, their rudeness dissolved into a chorus of "Oh, cute!" "Look at the cats!" "There are two of them!" "Awwww!" "How old are they?"
They crouched down to get a better look at the kittens. Rumi and Bogie had somehow disarmed their teenage bravado and replaced it with the wonder of children. I was stunned as I fielded question after question from the eager girls.
On the first subway train, I stood close to the conductor's booth and held Rumi and Bogie's case protectively against the wall. The noise and motion frightened them, and they began to yowl. When we changed trains at Lexington Avenue, the kittens kept up their loud, indignant serenade all the way through the corridor, down the escalator, and along the platform. I wearily leaned against the station wall and held their carrier in front of me.
As we waited for the number 6 train, Rumi and Bogie settled down. They converged at the front of the case again and stared solemnly out at the platform. And for a reason I couldn't explain, once again, people noticed them. I started to become aware that several of the haggard commuters around me were turning their heads and smiling. A man in a business suit approached, leaned down and beamed at the kittens. A woman came up and talked directly to them. Another man eagerly told me about his own cats. Two teenagers stopped to look at Rumi and Bogie and comment on them.
What on earth was happening? I was in a subway station in New York City. There's one protocol there: you mind your own business. It was incredibly hard to faze or impress an NYC commuter. Street performers did back flips — literally — and danced down the aisles in the subway cars, and some people didn't even look up from their newspapers. You could board the train with a tree, a harp, a set of skis or a puppet that held a conversation with you, and nobody would blink. You could be dressed in a clown, chicken or zombie costume and you'd be met with indifference. The golden rule for mass transit never changed: you minded your business, you didn't make eye contact with anyone, and you certainly didn't chat anyone up. As cold as the custom sounded, it was necessary for survival in a crowded, busy metropolis. I followed it myself.
Rumi and Bogie didn't know subway etiquette, and apparently, they had uncanny ability to make others forget it, too. They were simply two small black-and-white kittens with amber eyes, and all they were doing was sitting in their carrier and looking out at the world. But they were somehow compelling my fellow passengers to temporarily venture outside their protective bubbles for a second or two. In the course of five minutes, I probably conversed with more strangers in transit than I had in the past five years.
The moment we stepped onto the 6 Train, Rumi and Bogie's hold on their audience seemed to break. We were swept back into the anonymous underground stream of commuters, where we were close to hundreds of others and interacted with none. As I rested the kittens' carrier on my lap, I couldn't help noticing that my migraine had dissipated. I wasn't feeling quite as tired anymore, either. The positive energy that had been directed toward the kittens seemed to have benefited me.
The trip to the vet's office took a solid hour, two trains and a bus. In the course of that journey, Rumi and Bogie managed to bring a moment of joy to a gloomy subterranean world. For that alone, the journey was worth it.
School had just gotten out, and the bus was packed with kids. The ones sitting closest to me were being loud and somewhat disrespectful. I rubbed my head and winced as their laughter and shrieks burrowed right into my brain; the beginnings of migraine were hovering just behind my eyes. Neither Rumi nor Bogie seemed to mind; they simply peered out of their carrier with their large amber eyes and took it all in.
One of the girls looked in my direction and noticed the kittens. Her friends followed suit, and suddenly, their rudeness dissolved into a chorus of "Oh, cute!" "Look at the cats!" "There are two of them!" "Awwww!" "How old are they?"
They crouched down to get a better look at the kittens. Rumi and Bogie had somehow disarmed their teenage bravado and replaced it with the wonder of children. I was stunned as I fielded question after question from the eager girls.
On the first subway train, I stood close to the conductor's booth and held Rumi and Bogie's case protectively against the wall. The noise and motion frightened them, and they began to yowl. When we changed trains at Lexington Avenue, the kittens kept up their loud, indignant serenade all the way through the corridor, down the escalator, and along the platform. I wearily leaned against the station wall and held their carrier in front of me.
As we waited for the number 6 train, Rumi and Bogie settled down. They converged at the front of the case again and stared solemnly out at the platform. And for a reason I couldn't explain, once again, people noticed them. I started to become aware that several of the haggard commuters around me were turning their heads and smiling. A man in a business suit approached, leaned down and beamed at the kittens. A woman came up and talked directly to them. Another man eagerly told me about his own cats. Two teenagers stopped to look at Rumi and Bogie and comment on them.
What on earth was happening? I was in a subway station in New York City. There's one protocol there: you mind your own business. It was incredibly hard to faze or impress an NYC commuter. Street performers did back flips — literally — and danced down the aisles in the subway cars, and some people didn't even look up from their newspapers. You could board the train with a tree, a harp, a set of skis or a puppet that held a conversation with you, and nobody would blink. You could be dressed in a clown, chicken or zombie costume and you'd be met with indifference. The golden rule for mass transit never changed: you minded your business, you didn't make eye contact with anyone, and you certainly didn't chat anyone up. As cold as the custom sounded, it was necessary for survival in a crowded, busy metropolis. I followed it myself.
Rumi and Bogie didn't know subway etiquette, and apparently, they had uncanny ability to make others forget it, too. They were simply two small black-and-white kittens with amber eyes, and all they were doing was sitting in their carrier and looking out at the world. But they were somehow compelling my fellow passengers to temporarily venture outside their protective bubbles for a second or two. In the course of five minutes, I probably conversed with more strangers in transit than I had in the past five years.
The moment we stepped onto the 6 Train, Rumi and Bogie's hold on their audience seemed to break. We were swept back into the anonymous underground stream of commuters, where we were close to hundreds of others and interacted with none. As I rested the kittens' carrier on my lap, I couldn't help noticing that my migraine had dissipated. I wasn't feeling quite as tired anymore, either. The positive energy that had been directed toward the kittens seemed to have benefited me.
The trip to the vet's office took a solid hour, two trains and a bus. In the course of that journey, Rumi and Bogie managed to bring a moment of joy to a gloomy subterranean world. For that alone, the journey was worth it.
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