Description: Part One There are many different Manhattans. Whichone you happen to live in depends partly on geographyand partly on perception. I live on the Upper West Side,in the midst of an eccentric animal kingdom. In my Manhattan, people like their animals big: aristocratichunting dogs with wide, soft mouths, overfedguard dogs and pit bull mixes, sled dogs that have keptthe look of a wolf about them. These are large animalsfor large apartments: six- room prewars, with a coupleof children and possibly a weekend home in the Hamptons.Nobody has time to go jogging with the dog anymore,and the nanny refuses to pick up feces from thesidewalk, so a walker is hired. Elsewhere, on the East Side, are toy breeds with theiradorably hydrocephalic heads. The own ers are older;the children have grown up and been replaced by skittishcanine midgets with the appeal of perpetual infancy. Downtown are the elaborately designed fashion victims,entrancingly ugly breeds with faces wreathed in wrinkles,their noses squashed up between their eyes. Theyare dragged behind their fit and fabulous own ers, pantingfrom their deformed jaws. And then there are the exotics: lizards, parrots, rabbits,the odd squirrel monkey or de- glanded skunk. Idon't usually see these outside of work, but then, they'renot my specialty: They belong to someone else's Manhattan.So I suppose I was a little startled to see the manwith the baby barn owl on his shoulder, although not assurprised as the other subway riders. The man had a quality of alertness about him thatdidn't quite seem to match his appearance. He had thatlook you get from sleeping rough: T-shirt not quiteclean, the worn cotton molded to his wiry chest. I noticedthat the man's eyes were a pale hazel, almost yellow,as he kept moving his gaze around the subway car,careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I wonderedwhere he had found the little gray bird, which hadsunk into itself, but stopped myself from asking him.Most people think they're rescuing owlets when allthey're really doing is stealing the baby on its first dayout of the nest. My friend Lilliana can explain this topeople and they'll frown and say they had no idea, butwhen I open my mouth, people tend to get red in theface and become defensive. The little owl huddled closer to the man's neck and hereached back and patted it, shifting his other hand fromstrap to pole. A blond businesswoman sidled away andI saw the man notice. Then, for a moment, the man met my eyes, a halfsmileon his lips, as if he had something amusing to impart.I turned away from him, because I don't approveof people wearing animals as accessories. Particularlywild creatures, which are far more delicate than youmight think. I knew this because we get the odd raptor at the AnimalMedical Institute. We're the only veterinary ser vicein the New York area that caters to exotics, so we'repretty much the only game in town if your anacondaloses its appetite or your parrot breaks its foot. We'realso the only place in the tristate area that can do dialysison cats and the best place to give your dog chemo. But somehow I didn't think the raggedy man was takinghis little pal in for a checkup. I was wondering if I owedit to the owl to intervene when the subway screeched toa stop and the doors opened. There was a reshuffling ofbodies and I realized that the person pressing against myback had gotten off, giving me room to breathe again. Reflexively, I lifted my hand to adjust my pocketbookstrap, only to find that there was no pocketbook there. I felt a moment of disorientation. Was it possible thatI'd left home without it? Had it fallen to the floor? Andthen, on the heels of these thoughts, the realization:Someone had stolen my bag. I said it out loud, half indisbelief, just as the subway gave a hiss and a jolt, thedoors closed, and the train began to move again. I looked around, wildly, as if I expected the thief tostill be there. But of course, whoever it was would havegotten off the train. Around me, people were watchingwith various degrees of sympathy, alarm, and disinterest.I met the raggedy man's eyes and he gave a little shrugas if to say, Sorry, but it wasn't me. A heavyset woman with a vast ledge of a bosom pattedmy shoulder, and there were murmurs from theother women and some of the men. "What happened?""Somebody stole her bag." "Didn't you feel anything?"I shook my head. "I didn't feel a thing." I felt a risingpanic as my fellow passengers checked their own bagsand briefcases and wallets. But they were fine, while Iwas suddenly stranded without money, credit cards, cellphone, and keys. I tried to remember how much cash I'dbeen carry ing. Crap. I'd just gone to the bank yesterdayafter work. "They carry knives," said a thin teenage boy, his oversizedjeans hanging off his hips and revealing whiteboxers. "They just cut right through the strap, andbamemergency surgery on your finances." He lookedat me with mock concern, aglow with his own cleverness.For a moment, I suspected the cocky boy of being thepickpocket, and then I turned, feeling the owl man regardingme with heavily lidded eyes and a cynical halfsmile.He knew what I was thinking, and I could hearhis judgment of me as if he'd said it out loud: racist. Asif the color of the boy's skin had anything to do with mymomentary suspicion. Flushed and embarrassed, I turned away. I realizedwith a clench of anger that the man had been observingme for a whilehe might even have witnessed my beingrobbed without bothering to warn me. My heart pounding,I felt a wild urge to accuse him. He met my eyes asif he could read this thought as well, and then the subwaylurched to a stop. Without actually making a decision,I found myself pushing through the crowd to getoff. On the subway platform, I tried to think things through.I was already going to be late for rounds, but I couldn'twait till lunchtime to cancel all my credit cards. Andwhoever had taken my bag had my house keys alongwith my address. I had to tell my husband to change ourlocks. Reflexively, I reached for my cell phone before rememberingthat of course, I'd lost that, too. I made myway back to the station agent, who was hiding behindthe Plexiglas, pretending to be deaf. "I'm sorry," I said, trying to keep the note of hysteriaout of my voice, "but my purse was just stolen. Do youthink I could borrow your phone to make a local call?" "I'll make the call for you," said the woman, apparentlythinking this was some elaborate ruse to bilk theMTA. Maybe I should have gone for more hysteria. Itold her my number and waited as she lethargically dialedmy home. "Nobody's home." She regarded me with blank indifference. "He is home, he's just sleeping the sleep of the seriouslyjet- lagged. Can you please try again?" My husbandhad just come back from Romania last night looking illfrom fatigue, a good fifteen pounds thinner than I'd everseen him before. The station agent stared at me for a moment, as ifweighing her options. In the end, she redialed the number,using a pen to protect her inch- long nails. Hunter, I prayed, please wake up and answer thephone. I hadn't been expecting him for another week,and had nearly jumped out of my skin when he walkedin the door as I was eating day- old Thai food from thecarton with my fingers. He'd been sick with a stomachbug, he'd explained, and had changed his ticket. No, hedidn't feel up to giving me the details just yet, and yes, ifhe needed a doctor he'd call one. His tone implied wewere having an argument, and mine implied I hadn't noticed.I'd gone to bed at eleven and actually fallen asleepfairly quickly, an unusual occurrence for me. I had noidea when Hunter joined me, but at three a.m., when Iwoke up, he was on my right, snoring lightly from his attractivelyonce- broken nose. For a moment I had wishedhim gone again, so I could pamper my chronic insomniawithout restraintturning the lights on, surfing the televi sion, eating breakfast cereal in bed. Then he had spooned his body around mine, a rare intimacy,and I had felt his warm breath on the back of myneck. Savoring the closeness, I had remained motionlesswhile my left arm fell asleep and he began to snoreagain. I hated to bother him now, and knew he'd probablybe irritated at first, but he'd understand once I explainedwhat had happened. "Still not home," said the station agent, hanging upthe phone. "You want to talk to the police about thenbs

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