Moved

About three blocks from my office, a new hotel is under construction. Ten stories of unsightly scaffolding surrounds a cold, steel skeleton merged with half-finished concrete walls. There are open spaces for windows, but no glass yet in place. Buildings under construction are no rare sight in Manhattan, but I had never taken any notice of this particular building until it made headlines.

One chilly day in March, the local news media erupted with a story about a construction worker on the project—28-year-old Anthony Paino—who fell from the top floor to his death when a flimsy piece of plywood gave way under his feet. Early reports said it was his first day on the job.

Reading about Anthony and his fiancée (they had just bought a house and planned to be married in July) sent a wave of sadness through me that stuck around for a day or two, then drifted out of my mind to make room for the daily onslaught of new worries and factoids to settle in.

That is, until about two weeks later, when I found myself walking directly past the partially-constructed building. The sidewalk along what will likely be the entrance to the hotel is fully enclosed with scaffolding and, as I crossed the street to walk under it, I wondered if I would see any tribute to Anthony. A flower, perhaps? A message written in magic marker on a wooden board?

I walked the entire length of the building and was disheartened to see no such message. No sign memorializing Anthony or the spot where he died. No marker. No indication that a man's life had ended there. I was shocked and disappointed. How could people be so heartless? How could his co-workers not have paid tribute to him in some way? Or his family or friends, for that matter.

I continued walking, feeling disillusioned with people and saddened that Anthony’s death seemed to go unnoticed and uncommemorated at this, the site of his death.

Then, I turned a corner.

Before my eyes, a giant wall of flowers six feet high and 10 feet wide. Posters. Signs. Cards. Candles. More flowers. “We love you, Anthony” read one. “We’ll miss you!” read another. “Rest in peace” read so many—written in black, red, blue, purple. Some were written by people who knew him—co-workers, friends, family. What moved me most were those tributes written by people who’d never met him but had nonetheless felt saddened by his death.

My heart sank at the sight of the soaring memorial, but, as I walked away, a wave of hope and optimism took hold. Deep down, the majority of people are good-hearted, compassionate souls and I’ve always tried to remember that when negative thoughts pervade my otherwise-positive spirit.

There is immeasurable love and kindness out there. You just have to look for it.

What's Really Important

(Can you hear the sarcasm?) Still, you gotta love New York magazine's take on what's really running through the small mind of Bo the ObamaDog:

"Yay! Yay! Yay! Look at this big house! And the huge lawn! Yay! I am going to destroy every single piece of furniture in here! Especially that big bed that smells like mothballs and dead people! Yay! OMG, look at my new family! It has the cutest little human puppies!... Look how much fun they're having chasing me! Ooh, these floors are slippery. Whee!... This round, yellow room with the old wooden desk looks like a great place to POOP. I'll do it behind this couch so no one sees it for a while. If I get in trouble I'll blame it on that guy with the white plastic fur and shiny fangs. He doesn't look like he's housebroken. OH, look! A garden with roses! I'm going to go digging! Hooray! Here come the human puppies, maybe they can help! We're going to be best friends! Until they start fighting over who I like better. Yay!"

There, amidst all the important (read: depressing) news stories of the day, a happy photo and sophomorically cute paragraph to bring a smile to my face. Of course, that lasted until I remembered how disappointed I am that the Obamas went through a breeder and not a shelter. Shame on them.

A Sad Goodbye

An update: In spite of the logistical issues, we decided to add the kitty to our family. We kept her in the bathroom until we could have her examined by a vet. At first, she was very content to be out of the cold—she curled up on the bath rug, purred like a car engine whenever one of us came in to the bathroom and rubbed against our ankles as we brushed our teeth. Soon, though, she became eager to bust out and explore the rest of her new home.

We named her Scout.

Sadly, a trip to the vet confirmed Scout had the feline leukemia virus. Because our cat Phoebe has feline HIV, we could not risk her being exposed to other viruses. After several days of thoughtful deliberation, followed by a frantic search for a rescue organization or individual who could find her a home, we decided the best thing for her would be to put her to sleep.

Scout was one of the sweetest, most affectionate cats I’d ever known and we were heartbroken to end her life. I was actually quite surprised at how sad we both were, considering the fact that we’d only “known” her a few weeks. Even though she probably would not have lived long with her illness, it’s hard not to feel we failed this little kitty, dangling the carrot of a happy life in front of her, then yanking it away.

I know we did the right thing and I take comfort in remembering that—at least for a short time—she was safe, warm and loved.

Rest in peace, sweet kitty.