We’re on the third floor here in Rome and I think I have vertigo. Mama held me up to the window very gently (I wanted DOWN) because she thinks I’m bored/depressed/lethargic/preoccupied/off my feed or any combination therein because I do not have a GARDEN here.
Now a garden is a great thing, especially in April when mama is out there watching her little seedlings of San Marzano, Black Cherry and costellette tomatoes lift their little heads out of the potting soil and start their trek to being part of penne all’ arrabbiata or the loving companions to mozzarella di buffala.
And it’s so, so nice when I’m out there rolling around in my catnip getting all laid back after a few little nips. I said laid back, not that other thing, nosirree.
But here, alas, there’s nothing to roll around in and no little peckin’ cheepin’-shitters to chase (forgive me, but that’s my not-very-elegant name for birdies of all kinds because that seems to be all they do, the no good bums!) and no outdoor black and white kitty to stare at through our fencing, wondering if we are related. We can stare at one another for hours.
Downstairs here, there is a huge orange kitty named Lupa (the wolf, after the wolf of Rome who suckled those two little babies left to die—imagine!) who mama drew for the owners of the trattoria below, but Lupa is queen of the neighborhood and if I went down to visit…watch your back, Loulou!!
So mama is making this little protective see-through screen that covers the balcony so I can gaze out at the dumber than dumb seagulls and the cool pedestrians and the traffic and the gazillion students who go to the lyceo (that’s Italian for high school) in the piazza and at night, I can see the sweet little homeless lady who makes her bed on the cold steps of the little church near us. She gets all comfortable in her sleeping bag and then reads and reads and reads. I see that she is missing a fair amount of teeth and is very thin, but she talks about everything and remembers all that mama says to her and she’s very, very intelligent and the trattoria, Il Buco, gives her food, as do people in the neighborhood.
Mama has become good friends with her and gives her things every now and then and asks what she might need later, but she says she needs nothing; she says she simply lives outdoors and does not wish to change.
She looks up at me, too, and maybe wants to pet me or something and I wish I could snuggle up with her and keep her warmer out there when the night is cold.
