(That’s not really me with Winston Churchhill, but you get the picture.)
Oh, boy, here we go. On that thing that goes rowhhhhhhhhh all night long and undulates like a tiger stalking its prey, whatever a tiger is, but I know they undulate—like me, stretching. I just hope I can keep my dinner down this time. So does mama. So does Grimaldi…
This tri-annual changing of cities is stimulating, I have to say, and mama and papa love, love, love Roma and seeing the little midgets and papa’s son and the son’s wife and the son’s mamma, papa’s ex-wife (you see how complicated life can be for a kitty who lives without cares and complications), but they also love staying in one or the other place for awhile just to get their bearings and have some semblance of roots. I have my territory instincts, after all, even if I have to renew the boundaries every few months.
A friend of mama and papa came to lunch yesterday and told me a story about a man who tagged a lot of kitties who live in the wild and charted their wanderings by following the tags and some of them went a long, long way away to mark a territory in the daytime, say, that was marked in the night time by another kitty. Fascinating stuff, no? Kitties love their boundaries, and I can sit for hours, a low growl emanating from my little expressive mug, just watching that grey wildcat that comes over to our fence and stares back at me. We have a Mexican stand-off, that’s for sure, except without the third party, so I guess you could call it a duel instead—but no one ever attacks first, which is okay by me, little pacifist kitty that I am.
Plus if I attacked, I’d slam my poor little body into our wire fence and end up with a nice criss-cross pattern on my fur as would my grey adversary.
QED.
At least all I have to contend with are seagulls in Rome and they don’t dare cross my lines for fear of becoming fodder for the Jack Russells in the street.
Guess I’ll pack. I don’t go anywhere without my malt paste and Feliway.
