The bodega cat on Nostrand Avenue let me pet him this morning and I nearly cried into my bacon-egg-and-cheese.
His name is Biggie. The owner told me months ago, offhand, while I was buying plantain chips. Biggie is enormous and orange and has the emotional availability of a landlord. For a year he's regarded me the way most New Yorkers regard eye contact on the train: with suspicion and a faint hope I'll leave.
But today. Today the bodega cat on Nostrand let me scratch behind his ears for a full three seconds before walking away like it never happened. I'll be processing this for weeks.
There's something about these small belongings that make a city yours. Not the Statue of Liberty. Not the skyline. The guy at the counter knowing you want it on a roll, not a hero. The way the 3 train shows up exactly when you reach the platform if the universe is feeling generous. The cat.
When I first moved to Crown Heights I felt like a trespasser. Everything was already somebody's. The stoops had regulars. The halaal cart had a line of people who knew the names. I was just a girl from Ahmedabad standing on Nostrand Avenue hoping nobody could tell I'd Googled how to order a bodega sandwich.
Now the bodega cat on Nostrand knows me. The sandwich guy starts the order before I speak. The aunty who sells flowers outside the subway nods. These are not big things. These are the only things.
My dadi used to say you don't really live somewhere until a stray animal trusts you. I'm fairly sure she made that up to get me to feed the neighborhood dogs, but I've decided it's scripture.
I bought an extra can of tuna and left it by the door on my way out. Biggie did not thank me. Biggie owes me nothing.
I think I finally live here.
Who's the animal that made your block home?
Love,