If you’ve ever spent time in New York City, chances are you’ve crossed paths with one of its most iconic and beloved unofficial residents: the bodega cat. Whether curled up beside the register, tucked between shelves, or watching the street from a sunny window, these cats have become a small but instantly recognizable part of the city’s everyday rhythm. For many New Yorkers, spotting one feels like finding a tiny moment of warmth in the middle of the city’s constant motion. That quiet charm is at the heart of Bodega Cats of New York City, a book that will bring together heartwarming photographs of these furry shop companions while also highlighting the communities, store owners, and neighborhood routines surrounding them. More than a simple photo collection, the project offers a closer look at a culture that has existed across New York for generations, turning ordinary corner stores into places with personality, memory, and familiar faces.
Behind the project is the popular Instagram page New York Bodega Cats, which has been documenting these cats across the city and transforming quick, everyday encounters into something much more meaningful. Each image does more than introduce another adorable cat; it offers a glimpse into the small local businesses that keep New York moving, the people who run them, and the animals that have become part of their identity. What makes the project so captivating is its authenticity: these are not staged portraits, but real moments captured in real places, from sleepy cats lounging on snack displays to alert little guardians keeping watch over the store. Bodega cats may be cute, but they are also part of the neighborhood, building bonds with customers, bringing character to the shops, and representing a wonderfully practical, resilient, and slightly chaotic piece of New York’s local culture.
Bored Panda reached out to the page's creator to learn more about their project and what readers can expect from the book. So scroll down to read the full interview and, of course, vote on your favorite from this selection of feline store staff.
Update: The creator's of the page have completed a book titled “Bodega Cats of New York” which is available on preorder until full release in November 2026. Alongside with this announcement, they've published a trailer which you can watch to find out more about what to expect in the book.
#21 “The Zorro Swipe”
“Zorro is a tortoiseshell who lives at a Mexican grocer on Avenue A. She sits on the radiator by the front door and watches everyone who comes in.
The story goes like this: A health inspector came for a routine visit. He spotted Zorro on the radiator but didn't say anything. He finished the inspection, gave the store an A rating, and headed for the exit.
As he passed the radiator, Zorro swiped him. Two to three inches across the arm.
The inspector stopped. He turned to the owner, Ruben, and said: “Really, man? Really?”
Ruben shrugged. “Look, I'm sorry. Nothing I can do.”
The inspector walked out with an A rating and a scratch.
We can't independently verify this story. Ruben tells it. It's become part of the neighborhood lore. Whether Zorro was defending her territory, objecting to regulation, or just being a cat, nobody knows.
If you want to meet her, she's still there. Just give her space.”
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10points
#22 “Jimmy: $400 A Day”
“We were on our way somewhere else when we saw him, a giant orange tabby planted in the doorway like he was on duty.
He walked straight over, sniffed the camera, brushed my leg, then returned to his spot facing the street. Same tile. Same posture. Like he had a shift to finish.
The owner was behind the counter filling orders. He watched us watching Jimmy.
“You want to photograph him? Go ahead.”
I told him we were working on a book. He nodded like that explained everything.
“He gets me business every day,” he said.
“How?”
“People come for him, then they buy something. He sits right there and people follow him inside.”
While we were there, it kept happening. Someone slowed down at the doorway and smiled before they even looked at the shelves. Another person crouched to say hello like it was part of their routine.
The owner leaned in and told me he put a tracker on Jimmy.
“Not because he gets lost,” he said. “Because he's too friendly. People fall in love with him.”
A delivery driver walked in and immediately knelt down in front of Jimmy. Not in a hurry. Not passing through. He pulled out his phone and started showing him photos, like Jimmy was the one who needed the update.
The owner watched this and laughed.
“The reason I love cats,” he said, “is because when I was young, they taught me everything I know about sales.”
He said it like he was telling me his origin story.
“You have to go to them,” he continued. “You earn their trust. If you don't do it right, they leave and find someone else. Then you start over.”
He paused.
“That's sales.”
I asked about mice.
He shrugged. “People say we keep a cat for mice. Sure. But really, I catch the mice. Jimmy's my advertisement.”
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9points
#23 “Pumpkin: Born On The Right Day”
“Pumpkin was born on Halloween. The name was not a negotiation.
She is four years old now. Works at a bodega in Bushwick. Her spot is the candy shelf, which she treats like a balcony. She watches customers from up there like they are on parade. Seated, composed, slightly above everyone.
Parents point her out to their kids. The kids then refuse to leave without waving goodbye. Some days, the line to wave at Pumpkin is longer than the line to pay.
Workers told us she is the reason the store feels friendly. Not because she does anything specific. She just sits there. She watches. People walk in tense from whatever their day has been, look up, see the cat on the candy shelf, and something loosens. It is not dramatic. It is just a small reset.
“She was born on Halloween,” the owner said. Like that explained everything.
Pumpkin does not know she was named for the day she was born. She does not know kids wave at her on the way out. She does not know that the candy shelf, to her, is just a shelf, but to everyone else it is the first thing they look at when they walk through the door.
She just knows the height. The view. The parade that never stops.”
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9points
#24 “Sofia: She Has Extended More Commutes Than The L Train”
“Sofia is social. Customers bring toys specifically for her. Treats every visit like recess.
Some people stop by on their way to work just to play with her for five minutes. Someone holding a vape pauses mid-hit to crouch down and say hi. Sofia does not even blink. The owner says she has extended more commutes than the L train.
She has a preferred toy, a crinkled ball, that she carries around the store and drops at the feet of whoever she has decided needs to throw it. If you ignore her, she picks it up and drops it again. Louder. She is patient but persistent. One regular keeps a backup toy in his bag just in case Sofia's ball goes missing.
Most bodega cats are passive. They sit, they observe, they allow contact on their terms. Sofia initiates. She decides when it is time to play, and she decides who is playing. There is no opting out. You either throw the ball or you stand there while a cat stares at you with the ball at your feet, waiting.
The thing about Sofia is that she changes the pace of the store. People slow down. They put their phone away. They crouch. For a few minutes, the commute does not exist. The train is not coming. The meeting can wait. There is a cat with a crinkle ball who has chosen you.”
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9points
#25 “Charlie: He Will Let You Know When He Is Ready”
Charlie has rules. First-time customers get warned at the counter.
“Don't try to pet him. He'll let you know when he's ready.”
Some people never get the green light. Charlie is fine with that. He is aggressive with new people and loyal to regulars. The boundaries are respected by everyone because the consequences of ignoring them are immediate and clear.
Most bodega cats are approachable. They sit on the register and accept whatever attention comes their way. Charlie is the opposite. He decides who gets access and when. The regulars understand this. They have earned their standing over months, sometimes years. A new face means nothing to Charlie until it becomes a recurring one.
The workers do not apologize for him. They do not try to make him friendlier. They just deliver the warning and let people make their own decisions. Most listen. The ones who do not learn fast.
There is something honest about a cat who does not perform warmth he does not feel. Charlie is not rude. He is clear. The difference matters.”
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9points
#26 “Simba: He Does Not Move For Anyone”
“Simba was named when he was small. He grew into the name perfectly.
Now he is the size of a small dog and has the confidence to match. Customers step around him and the stacked Corona boxes like he is part of the store layout. Simba does not move for anyone.
He picks a spot and that spot becomes his for the rest of the shift. If it happens to be the middle of the aisle, customers adjust. If it happens to be on top of the delivery that just arrived, the delivery waits. Nobody moves Simba. Simba moves when Simba is ready.
There is a type of bodega cat who makes the store fit around him instead of fitting into the store. Simba is that type. The aisles are narrow. The inventory is stacked high. There is barely room for two people to pass. And there is Simba, planted in the center of it, watching the whole operation like he is running it.
He was small once. Nobody remembers that version of him. The name is all that is left of it.”
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9points
#27 “Tiger”
“Tiger is a Scottish Fold in Williamsburg. His owner Chiku brings him to the store, which says something about the arrangement. Tiger is not running pest control operations. He sits. Customers stop. That's the job.
He doesn't understand he's supposed to kill mice, which makes him, by working cat standards, unemployed. The store is better for having him there anyway. That's the argument in miniature for every bodega cat in the city.”
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9points
#28 “Lucky: The New Guy”
“A cat named Obama worked at a bodega in Bushwick. Then someone took him.
The owner filed a police report. The neighborhood posted flyers. Block by block, stapled to telephone poles and taped inside laundromat windows. Obama never came back.
A month passed. The store felt different without a cat. Regulars noticed. The owner noticed. The empty spot by the register stayed empty.
Then Lucky walked in. A stray. Black coat, no collar, no history anyone could trace. He came through the open door on a Tuesday afternoon, walked past the chip aisle, sat down near the counter, and did not leave.
The owner did not go looking for a replacement. He did not put out an ad or call a rescue. Lucky just showed up and started working.
“He walked in like he already had the job,” the owner told us.
Two years later, Lucky is still there. He is two years old, fully settled, fully employed. The regulars who remember Obama have accepted him. The ones who came after don't know the history. They just know the black cat by the register.
But the nickname stuck. Customers who never met Obama still call Lucky “the new guy.” Not to his face. Just among themselves, like it's a running joke that never quite ended. The owner hears it and shrugs. He stopped correcting people months ago.
The flyers are gone now. The telephone poles have new layers. Nobody talks about Obama anymore unless someone new asks why the cat's name is Lucky.
Lucky does not know about Obama. He does not know about the police report or the flyers or the weeks the store sat catless. He does not know that his name is a commentary on how he arrived.
He just knows the counter. The door that opens. The regulars who scratch behind his ears without introducing themselves.
They still call him the new guy. He has been here two years.”
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8points
#29 “Tommy: They Come For The Eyes”
“Tommy works at the bodega on 10th Avenue in Hell's Kitchen. He sits on a flattened cardboard box pushed up against the heater.
The door chime rings constantly. People walk in, scan the aisles, and leave without buying a single thing. They aren't looking for soda. They aren't looking for chips. They are looking for the white cat on the cardboard.
“People come in just to visit him,” the worker told us. She has been there five years. She watches customers stop, pull out their phones, take a photo, and walk back out to the sidewalk.
They come for the eyes.
One eye is blue. The other is green. Against his solid white coat, the difference is stark. It looks almost artificial.
It stops people on the sidewalk. They see him through the glass and they come inside. They want to make sure it is real.
Tommy allows it. He does not perform for them. He accepts the attention, waits for the camera shutter, and then goes back to sleep.
Tommy was not always a shop cat.
Five years ago, he belonged to a family in the neighborhood. They had two children, two cats, and the mother was pregnant. They were moving, and in the logistics of the move, a calculation was made.
They could not take everyone. They took one cat with them. They brought Tommy to the store.
We found out about him from an old newspaper article. When we visited, he was asleep in his bed. The worker woke him gently.
“Hi, baby,” she said.
Tommy stretched, yawned, and turned to face us with those mismatched eyes. He didn't seem bothered. He didn't seem impressed either.
He doesn't know about the family's new life. He doesn't know that people travel specifically to see his eyes. He just knows the box. The heater. The worker who wakes him up gently.
The family took one cat with them. Tommy got a bodega.”
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8points
#30 “Michu: Two Precise Swipes”
“Customers adore her. Not in a passing way. In a stop-mid-errand, crouch-down-on-the-tile, forget-your-coffee-order kind of way.
Michu runs the front of the bodega with authority. She recognizes regulars. She inspects newcomers. She will greet anyone who approaches calmly, but she evaluates everyone first. Five or six years in the store, and she has the routine down to a science.
But dogs? No chance.
The worker told us this while juggling everything at once: filling Grubhub orders, ringing up customers, taking a phone call, restocking shelves. We were following him around the store, trying to get quotes in the gaps between transactions. As a true New Yorker, he was doing his job first and squeezing in answers between customers.
“She loves people,” he said. “Just not dogs. She warns them. They don't listen. She warns them again.”
One dog did not take the hint. Tried to play with her. Moved too close. Kept sniffing, kept pushing, thinking Michu was playing back.
She wasn't.
Michu gave two quick, precise swats. The dog finally understood.
“This is her territory,” the worker said. “She's not aggressive. She just has rules.”
She navigates the store like she is patrolling familiar ground. When customers gather, she drifts toward them. When the aisles are quiet, she roams at her own pace. She knows which shelves are safe to nap under, which displays she is forbidden from climbing, which corners deliver extra warmth from the equipment behind the wall.
Behind her, the grill guy works through the lunch chopped cheese rush, the smell drifting toward the front. Michu barely looks up.
The one thing she will not challenge is a health inspector. The moment she senses that energy—clipboard, serious face, unfamiliar purpose—she disappears. Downstairs. Out of sight. The staff does not even have to say anything.
“She knows the drill,” one worker said. “When they do come, we bring her downstairs. So she's nowhere up here when they come.”
While we photographed her, the cooks peeked out from the kitchen. When they found out Michu was getting photographed for a book, they lit up. They passed around sample prints, arguing over which angle captured her attitude best. The whole kitchen staff got excited. I handed out stickers.
Michu did not react to any of it. She sat nearby, flicking her tail.”
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8points
#31 “Manny: He Spots Inspectors Before They Enter”
“Manny has the presence of a cat who knows exactly how much of the block falls under his jurisdiction.
Big frame. Two-toned nose. He sits outside his market watching foot traffic. When we arrived, he was already in his preferred spot, acknowledging greetings, ignoring anything unimportant. People paused to talk to him. Some crouched down. Some just nodded at him like he was a neighbor sitting on a stoop.
Customers stop just to see him. Not to shop. Not to browse. To see Manny.
The worker told us this with a shrug. “He knows everybody. Customers. Delivery guys. People from upstairs. He keeps track of things.”
He watches every face. Notes who walks fast, who hesitates, who is new. When people stop to greet him, he gives them a slow blink or a small shift in posture. Inside, he moves slower. Controlled. He has designated zones, spots he cycles through. A shelf he naps under. A stretch of wall he uses as a vantage point. A counter he avoids because it does not interest him.
His routine is consistent enough that the workers can predict where he will be at different times of day.
The part that surprised us most was his timing with health inspectors.
“He knows what they look like,” the worker said. Clipboard. Jacket. The particular type of walk. Manny picks up the signal immediately. And the second he does, he is gone. Not dramatically. Just quietly somewhere else. Outside. Down the hall. Behind a stack of crates.
Three years in the store. Not a single violation.
The workers do not take credit. They point at Manny.
“He just knows,” they said. “We don't teach him.”
Nobody trains a cat to recognize a health inspector. Nobody explains the stakes. But cats read environments. They notice patterns humans miss. A certain posture. A certain pace. A certain way of looking around that says this person is checking things.
Manny noticed, and he adapted.
By the time the inspector finishes the checklist, Manny is back on the counter like nothing happened. No citation. No warning. No evidence he was ever there.
Three years, zero violations.
When we left, he was back outside, watching the sidewalk. Same spot. Same posture. Same slow scan of everyone passing by.
The block belongs to him. He just lets people walk through it.”
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#32 “Kiki: She Claims The ATM”
“Kiki prefers the top of the ATM. She claims it like a throne.
The owner's daughter named her. The daughter does not work there. She just made the decision early and nobody overruled it.
ATMs run hot. Bodega cats figure this out fast. In the winter, the machine is the warmest surface in the store. In the summer, it is still warm, but the cat does not care. The spot is claimed. The habit is set. Other warm surfaces exist. Kiki is not interested.
When people try to use the machine, she stares them down until they apologize. Some customers use a different bodega just to avoid the confrontation. Kiki does not care about lost revenue. The owner does, but only a little. Most people laugh. Some take photos. A few just reach around her and punch in their PIN while she watches.
If you have spent enough time in bodegas, you learn to check the ATM first. Fur on top of the machine means there is a cat in the store. You just have to find it. Sometimes the fur is the only evidence. The cat is in the back, in the basement, behind the paper towels. But the ATM knows.
Kiki skips the subtlety. She is right there. Elevated, visible, unbothered. Watching everyone who walks in like she is deciding whether they deserve access to their own money.”
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8points
#33 “Chanel: She Inspects Every Box”
“Chanel sleeps through most shifts. Only wakes for deliveries.
When the UPS truck pulls up, she is at the door before the driver gets out. She inspects every box. Sits on them. Sniffs the edges. Confirms everything is correct. Once the boxes are inside and accounted for, she walks back to her spot and goes to sleep like she just clocked out.
The owner tried to film this once to prove it was not coincidence. Chanel performed exactly on cue. “She hears the engine from two blocks away,” he said.
Delivery drivers across the city know certain cats. They have routes, and the routes include stops where a cat will be waiting. Some drivers keep treats in their pockets. Some just know to move slowly. The relationship between delivery drivers and bodega cats is one of those patterns nobody writes about because nobody thinks it counts as a story. It counts.
Chanel does not greet customers. Does not sit in the window. Does not perform. She has one job and she does it on her own schedule. The rest of the time, she sleeps. Efficiency perfected. Work-life balance mastered.
The owner does not mind. A cat who sleeps eighteen hours and works for two minutes is still a cat who works.”
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#34 “Mia: Ues Princess”
“Her full name is Mia Garfield.
They named a Persian cat Garfield. Nobody in the store sees the contradiction.
She has been holding down a bodega on 2nd Avenue in the Upper East Side for three years. In that time, Fox 5 has come by. Professional photographers have come by. A book crew came by.
She looked annoyed during all of it. That is just her face.
Mia is a Persian mix with a flat, compressed face that registers somewhere between unbothered and personally offended. She could be doing the most ridiculous thing in the store and still look like she is tolerating you. This is the whole arrangement. People come in specifically for it.
Some days she feels generous and posts up on the sidewalk outside. Sits there watching 2nd Avenue, not wandering, not chasing anything. People stop. They always stop.
Other days she is in the back of the store and nobody gets an audience. Her fans check daily to see which version of Mia they are getting.
Behind the scowl, she is a total goofball. She stretches across the floor like she is doing mat Pilates. She bunny kicks anyone who gets too close to her belly. She has a signature move where she poses with one leg up, and her followers have documented it enough times to recognize it on sight.
She has an Instagram account, 475 followers, run by someone the bio describes only as “my favorite fan.” Her titles are listed: bodega manager, security, personality hire, sidewalk model, UES princess.
Her highlight reels are labeled: posing, outside, friends?, my fans, weirdo, chillin. The question mark after “friends” is the most honest thing on the internet.
There is another cat in the store. A grey one. You would not know it from the Instagram.
The account is all Mia. Forty-five posts. The grey cat appears maybe once, in the background, out of focus.
Mia does not know about the Fox 5 segment. She does not know a stranger runs an Instagram account in her name, writing captions she will never read.
She does not know that her face is the reason people walk into a bodega on 2nd Avenue and stay longer than they planned.
She just knows the floor. The cooler. The sidewalk when she decides you deserve it.”
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8points
