Like all cats, I enjoy warm weather. I’m also pretty good at keeping myself cool but, in a heat wave, I could do with a little extra help from you.
I’ve said it before. People are weird.
For example, the woman-who-feeds-me displays annoyance when I follow her into the toilet. What’s the problem here? I only want to make sure she’s OK, you never know what predators are lurking about with their savage eyes on litterboxes. Survival and safety take priority over privacy any day.
Some boffins have come up with scientific evidence that cats are, wait for it …. nice. A university study concluded that cats like interacting with humans more than they like eating food.
Let that sink in: “more than food”. Wrong! I don’t like anybody more than food.
What did I do on International Cat Day? Why do you ask?
I did what any self respecting cat would do, I ran a Time and Motion study on the woman-who-feeds-me, noted the usual failings in the quality of food provision and the lamentable tardiness in the litter-changing duties. Same same. Why do I bother?
Be a Cool Cat on even the hottest of days
Like all cats, I enjoy warm weather. I’m also pretty good at keeping myself cool but, in a heat wave, I could do with a little extra help from you. While you’re organising chilled treats for yourself and keeping out of the heat, spare a thought for your cat who can’t take a quick shower or get a cold drink from the fridge.
Now I don’t go outside much these days, especially when we experience long stretches of hot weather (46C and me with a fur coat!) and I don’t care much for rain either, on the odd occasion when it grudgingly appears, but this is too much! I’m locked in the house.
There is a stranger in my yard!
I don’t like this stupid thing in my space. To be brutally honest. I hate ducks.
What good is a duck? You can’t converse with it, you can’t curl up for a nap with it, you can’t collaborate with it to open the fridge, you just can’t make friends with it. And you can’t eat it either.
I swear she spends more time chopping up fruit and stuff to feed this interloper than she does in preparing my meals.
The woman is also protective of this uninvited guest. Just the other day I was curled up peacefully on my chair on the porch when the stupid thing waddled past. I would have treated it with the bored indifference it deserves but, before I could give a hearty sneer, the rude thing stared straight at me and gave out a long, grating, honking, horrible noise which made all my fur stand up.
The woman was there in two ticks and scooped me up. Me! I’d done nothing. Next thing you know, I’m locked inside and I’ve been in here ever since. No punishment for the duck for disturbing my comfort!
It’s a sad state of affairs.
Cats in Italy are not very much different to the cats in my own neighbourhood. The back lanes beckon us.
I know that I would fit in very well in Italy but the woman, of course, has other ideas. For starters, she says, I’m too old to travel. Maybe I should pack my bag and get out of the cottage we share right now- that would show her how old I am. Then she’d be sorry.
The drawback here of course is that I’m far too comfortable with the whole house redesigned for my own personal comfort.
But sometimes I can imagine that I’m in Italy, that I too, can wander down mysterious and enticing alleyways and back lanes. Just like this one down the road from where I live.
With a little imagination, this common or garden alley could be the exact same alley in Italy you can see in the first photo. Perhaps the writing on the wall is Italian too, it’s a universal signage language anyway.
In my case, the neighbouring back alley is only a block away from my dinner bowl and sheepskin-clad cushion in my own backyard. Much more comfortable than a foreign lane, don’t you think?
While she’s tripping around like a queen, I will be languishing under the care of another (at least I’m not destined for the cat boarding chambers).
But I shouldn’t be feeling resentful, I’m much better off in my own home than padding around scrubby vineyards in the hot sun and imagine if the volcano decided to blow up just as I was checking out the value of ash as kitty litter?
Worse, to my horror, I’ve found that cats in Sicily are poisoned on a regular basis. When I was younger and more adventurous, I was picked up a couple times from the creek at the back of my house by some stranger and carted off to the Cat’s Home. Luckily, I’m microchipped and the woman could liberate me from this indignity. (I rarely move far from the back porch these days).
If I lived in Sicily, it would have been curtains for me.
Still, do you think it’s fair for her to jaunt around the globe and leave me behind? Questions of loyalty spring to mind. Why, I could even bring her luck and pick up a fortune, just like Tommaso, the rich Italian cat
Some more of those Sicilian cats. These two are in Cefalu and I can only hope that their food isn’t poisoned.
Yes, it’s official, the woman is not taking me to Rome. My arguments on how travel enlightens a cat fell on deaf ears and on a closed mind. Closed tight as a can of sardines.
I had grand visions of visiting the Cat Shelter in Torre Argentina but that’s not to be.
The photo above is one of the cats around the Shelter and I tried to pose for a similar photo but the effect wasn’t quite the same. At least the woman didn’t think so. She says that the garage being built next door is nothing like the statue of Pompey in the Torre Argentina. She has no imagination.
I thought it was very similar myself.
Do you see that Italian moda? The sleek and graceful line of the essential cat against the rough hewn brick?
Mahogany on Burnt Sienna. Very Roman.
I don’t like change for one thing, at least I don’t like change that I haven’t initiated. No apologies for this. I believe that once we reach a certain stage in life, when we are acknowledged as Elders, we know what we like. More importantly, we know what we don’t like.
I don’t like my basket being moved, I don’t like my blanket suddenly stripped from the bed and forced through a washing machine till it comes out smelling of soap. Yuk. Who wants to smell soap? Who wants to smell like soap?
I don’t like my diet being at the whim of some uncaring Vet. I’m used to my gently poached chicken, my diced salmon and the occasional carefully coddled egg. I don’t want to hear about “necessary economies”.
And I don’t like my blog changed without consultation! Too late now, I don’t care how often the woman who feeds me apologises.
Sometimes I think the world is moving way too fast for me.