At the end of the F train, I made my way a few blocks north to the boyhood home of Donald Trump, former president of the United States. On a street lined with tidy Tudor bungalows, the yard in front was choked with weeds, and a sign said, “Do not remove kittens from the property.” A cat with piercing green eyes sat next to the mailbox, red flag up. As I walked away, the cat followed, and stayed with me for several blocks, disappearing, and then popping up again in front of me.