on his light, walking backwards as I follow the foreman into the condemned structure, navigating my way through oily puddles. (Hey, don’t give me that look. Fine, so he was right about the heels. But they take me up to six-foot-two and since I’m one hundred forty-five pounds of solid muscle I like being the Amazon of the newsroom.) “Okay, we’re rolling. So, Mister Richards, tell me why demolishing a building with explosives is such an art?”
“Well, you’ve gotta place the dynamite just right—”
He stops walking so I do the same. “What?”
He puts up his hand and points at a door. “Hang on. You hear that?”
I lean toward it and listen. “Yeah. I think it’s coming from that room. You think someone’s in there?”
“Not someone.” He pulls out a flashlight, turns it on and opens the door to a dark office. The high-pitched noise gets louder. “Well, well, we still have a few residents, I see.”
“What, rats?”
“Nope.” I follow the beam of light and see an old cardboard box filled with a bunch of crying kittens.
And a mother cat that is obviously dead.
The photographer aims his light at the box, brightening the room so we can see better.
I move forward and crouch down to take a closer look. “Poor little guys. The mother cat died.” I look around, find a clean box and start to place the kittens inside. “You’re a lucky bunch of kittens. You almost got blown up.”
And then one of them claws my brand new Prada jacket, pulling out a thread.
“Sonofabitch! My brand new jacket!” I put the kitten in the clean box and shake my head. “Can this day get any worse?”
“Uh-oh,” says the photographer as he turns to the foreman. “You might not need the explosives. Mount Madison is about to erupt.”
“Bite me, Ed.” I lift the box and stand up, then hold it out toward the foreman.
He furrows his brow. “What do you want me to do with these?”
“Find homes for ‘em. Your construction site, your kittens.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, young lady, but I can’t stop this project to take care of a bunch of orphaned cats. I love animals as much as the next person and I’ve got two cats at home, but I’m stuck here all night. And it’s obvious they need to be taken care of right away. I’ll bury the mother cat but as far as those kittens go, you’re it.”
My face tightens. “What am I gonna do with four kittens?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Take ‘em to a shelter.”
“On Friday night of a holiday weekend?”
“What can I say?” He starts to laugh.
“What?”
He points at my hand. “I just noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring.”
“That’s because I’m single.”
“You live by yourself?”
“Yeah. Why? You want my phone number?”
“Nah, it just hit me. Thirtysomething unmarried woman who lives alone.” He points at the box. “You’ve got yourself a cat lady starter kit.”
Stuck in traffic with four crying kittens is not my idea of a fun Friday night. I keep staring at the pull on my jacket, wondering if it can be fixed. And even if it can I would still know it’s there.
Meanwhile, I have more pressing problems to deal with. I need someone to take said problems off my hands.
I hit the hands-free button on the steering column to access my cell phone, then ask the robot with the clipped female voice a question. “Find all animal shelters on Staten Island.”
Beep. “There are three animal shelters on Staten Island.”
I pump my fist. “Yes!” Back to the robot. “Find an animal shelter on Staten Island that is currently open.”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic begins to move. Beep. “There are no animal shelters currently open on Staten Island. The next shelter opening is at eight a.m. on Monday morning. Would you like directions?”
“Sonofabitch!”
Beep. “I do not appreciate your language. Please rephrase in a more dignified manner.”
Just what I need, a snooty cell phone. “Why is this happening to me?”
Beep. “Your question needs to be more specific. Please re-phrase it—”
“Oh, shut the hell up!”
Beep. “I do not appreciate your language. Please—”
I pound the steering wheel, turning off the phone.
There’s only one option left as I head for home.
“Please, God, let him be home.”
I bound up the steps of the house belonging to the veterinarian who lives next door. The kittens are still crying as I jam my finger into the doorbell several times.
“Coming! Keep your shirt on!”
“Thank you, God.” I hear footsteps and see a figure moving toward me through the beveled glass. The door opens and I exhale as I see my neighbor. “Jeff, so glad you’re home.”
The fortyish vet with short salt-and-pepper hair looks at the box of kittens. “Madison, you shouldn’t have. What’s going on?”
“I was doing a story on the demolition of the stadium and we found them in one of the offices. The mother cat was dead and they won’t stop crying and I know they’re hungry and I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow and could you take them—”
“Whoa, hold on. I’ve got a plane to catch in a couple hours for my own vacation.”
“Is there a shelter open?”
“Not at this hour and kittens this young need to be bottle fed.” He takes the box from me. “C’mon inside, I’ve got some formula and bottles.”
I follow him and shut the door. “Wait a minute … bottle fed?”
The short, slightly built vet nods. “It’s pretty common for orphaned kittens. Same as feeding a baby. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
“Me?”
“Like I said, I’ve gotta go but don’t worry, it’s simple. From the looks of them, they need to be fed right now or they won’t survive.”
He leads me into the kitchen, then pulls a cardboard
