Omer & Senor

It started with Juicy. A calico who walked into his juice bar years ago and sat on top of a produce box. Omer says she brought him luck.

He was able to expand the store. Then expand again. Then open an adoption center three doors down. Juicy is retired now. Eighteen years old, living upstairs, no longer working the counter. But she changed how Omer sees animals. Before her, he treated them like objects. After her, he saw that they feel pain. That they have emotions. That recognition became a kind of obligation.

Luna came next. Another rescue who stayed until she couldn't. When she got sick, Omer paid for her treatment. When she died, he buried her under a cherry tree behind the building.

"She's still here," he said, standing near the tree. Literally.

Senor arrived in 2020. His previous owner lost a job and planned to surrender him to a shelter. Omer took him instead. Now Senor has his own "summer house" with a warming pad. He follows Omer to the bathroom. He naps on his legs during slow hours. He bites visitors when he wants Omer's attention back.

"Whenever they come for the inspection," Omer told us, "I say, give me the ticket. I'll pay for it."

Kids press their faces to the adoption room windows. Regulars ask about specific cats by name. His mother brings cookies and helps with the feeding schedule. The economics don't work. He does it anyway.

"In Turkey, everyone has cats," he said. "It's normal. Here people look at me like I'm crazy. But what am I supposed to do?"

Outside, he pointed to the feeders he leaves for raccoons and squirrels.

"Why?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Because they're hungry."

Bodega Cats of New York comes out this fall.