Il sono gattare

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a cat lover. Being here without my kitty pride is (to put it mildly) difficult. Which leads me and all roads back to Rome.

We were on our way to the restaurant when the director, Sue, mentioned the cat ruins. Cat ruins? My imagination went wild. The slides in my mind’s eye were stuck somewhere between the Sphinx and a small-scale Forum (resplendent with the skeletal remains of mice sacrificed to Zeus-cat). No. Actually she meant ruins turned over to cats. The cats literally have their own ruins. (Actually, Roman law dictates that if a stray shows up at your house, it has the right to live there. You don’t have to take care of it, but don’t argue when it starts wanting to eat breakfast with you.) All ruins have cat occupants, but the Cat Ruins are located on Torre Argentina.

The next morning, after coffee and before the students were up, I made the short pilgrimage. And there they were below me on their field of green. Playing, lounging, jumping, yes, ruling over these ancient ruins. A well-fed calico napping on a column and the government recognizing its position of authority is a long way away from panhandle backroads where cats are allowed only to keep away mice and left to their own devices to fend off fleas, ringworm, and hunger. Brava Roma! Here’s to the rest of the world catching up.

4 responses to “Il sono gattare

  1. Beautiful kitties. May i do need to fly into Rome.

  2. Nikolai was reading over my shoulder. He seemed a little dubious about living in the ruins. Of course he’d rather stay under the bed anyway.

  3. Ah, the cat ruins. I spent my summer in Rome passing by the those very feline-filled stones between my hotel and the building in which we had classes (near the Pantheon).

    Beware the white cat with its eyes scratched out! I wish I could say that is just a cryptic Chinese proverb or the like, but there really was a scary white cat with no eyes that tortured us daily with its grotesque sadness.

  4. I just had a love fest with Black Bob he was purring like a motor boat. Whte Bob joined me with a softer purr and he did his little chirp a few times. I told them about the ruins, and they agreed their life was better. White Bob goes to Zohair’s beige prayer cushion each night when the chuch bells from the circle ring each evening, and looks out the window. Black Bob ignores them. Do you think White Bob will convert to Methodist? He might take the direction of Mrs. Roth’s little dogs and become a Christian cat. Do you remember that story? hint: Sherrey’s mother!!

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