At the last raggedy group rental I saw — an old artist's loft in Tribeca — the inside of the decrepit elevator told me everything I needed to know. The message "Ottoman Empire, reveal yourself" was spray-painted on the dirty wall next to a taped-up memo that read, "Exterminator scheduled for February 31."

On the fifth floor, I knew I'd come to the right apartment when I saw the small sign on the door: "In the event of an evacuation, please rescue two dogs, one cat, roomful of birds, six turtles." Someone with different handwriting had added, "And one dude named Jay." The woman I'd spoken to on the phone, Marie, opened the door and greeted me with a sleepy, distracted air and a hand-rolled cigarette between two fingers. Then I walked straight into an aviary. Eight birds chirped beneath a grow light, which, she explained, was set to a nocturnal timer. A thirty-year-old retired model, she stood almost six feet tall, with perfect whole-milky skin and straight brown hair that skimmed the top of her waist.

A cacophony of high-pitched barks announced two dogs: a three-pound Chihuahua named Lila and a rat terrier named Charlie. "Come on, girls," Marie said to them. "Let's roll." She turned on her barefoot heel and headed towards the kitchen. I took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with hundreds, possibly thousands, of records and hardcover photography books, framed drawings and photos of Marie on magazine covers, tear sheets of jewelry and perfume advertisements that I recognized from the nineties.

"First of all, this is their home," Marie said, offering me a cup of lukewarm coffee. A black cat with dandruff scuttled behind a potted ficus tree.

"I like animals," I said weakly, taking a sip.

The living room was a showcase for a museum-sized collection of taxidermy: a wild turkey flanked by stuffed iguanas, a brown bear's head on the brick wall, above a diorama of turtle shells and beneath an array of antlers.

Here, I thought, was a place I could fall apart. No one would even notice!

It was a messy, crowded house, so obviously lived in I felt an overwhelming rush of relief. Here, I thought, was a place I could fall apart. No one would even notice!

"It's a three-bedroom," Marie said as we walked down a dark hallway, "and there's a guy living in this one. Chris. He works nights, on the opposite schedule of the birds. This would be yours." I followed her through a doorway to a sunlight-flooded room with a corner plywood desk, a loft bed on stilts, and enough plants to fill a greenhouse.

"I'll take it," I said, and Marie pulled a key out of her pocket.