Somebody's ringing the bell...

**Warning...very long post.***

Street Urchins

We are Americans living in Italy. Yes, I know it sounds like a dream, but life is rarely lived as in a dream.  


I love it here.  I am reminded of what life was like when I was growing up, with a sense of community and wholesomeness I have missed for a very long time.  And the food is natural and wonderful, the air is clean, the water is potable and it is nearly impossible to find a bad wine.

There are difficulties, such as learning an entirely new language, dealing with Italian bureaucracy and, for the time being, getting along without a car.  Add to that the usual complaints of someone getting older, complete with aches and pains and mounting fatigue.  It does, however, seem that people live quite a long time here. 

We did a brief sojourn in New Jersey in an “adult community.”  Lovely house, nice little garden, a “gym” of sorts.  But the day we moved in and a neighbor described it as “God’s waiting room” did not precisely fill my heart with warmth and affection for the place.  Being surrounded by old people gets old very quickly!  And the rules they had!  We’re adults, right?  I can’t grow a vegetable?  I can’t decide what color to paint my shutters?  I can’t bring my adult daughter to the gym with me?  I chafed at their arbitrary rules, the way they were rampantly cutting down trees and the daily anticipation of finding out who died recently.  It felt very isolating and depressing.

Here, we live in a hill town of approximately twelve thousand people.  A town built atop a hill starting in the 12^th Century and continuing through the 16^th...and today.  A central town of ancient churches, monasteries, buildings and “terra cotta” homes made of stone and brick, with cobblestone streets that wind this way and that.  It is not “booming” by any means, in fact, the economy is struggling, yet the town bustles by day and evening, with a long “pranzo” (lunch…the main meal of Italians) in the middle of the day.  It is a town populated by old and young and everyone in between, which, to me, is the way people ought to live.
  
In my fantasy, before we actually got here, I pictured us having a cat or two.  But my husband was adamant, “No more cats!  We’re done with cats!”  He didn’t ever want to clean a litter box again, or smell one.

Yes, I pictured la bella vita, sitting on a bench with a glass of wine in the cortile (courtyard) with the outer door open and the afternoon sun streaming in, and a kitty schmoozing around my ankles.  Just an easy life with good food, clean water and no appointments to keep.  That was the dream.

The reality was that there is a burgeoning feral cat population, particularly in our piazza, possibly because we are near a walkway that has some woods and greenery, also possibly because there are nooks and crannies and openings to vacant spaces where these cats can hide, stay relatively warm and sleep. 

One day last spring, three tiny kittens appeared beneath the window or our neighbors across the street.  My neighbor, Marguerite, told me that she and her husband, Tony, feed the cats what they can.  She also said that Tony had placed some boxes for comfort inside various nooks for the cats to use as shelters and beds.

I noticed these kittens nearly every day, two little gray striped ones and one entirely black.  I was also able to identify their mother.  Another lady down the block and around the bend of a small alley fed them, too.  I ached for these little babies.

We had our outer door restored by our other neighbor, Domenico.  In order for him to do the job, he removed the entire door...which is 600 years old and in four or five parts.
  
This left our cortile (courtyard, pronounced core-tee-lay) wide open and the little ones wandered in.  I didn’t say a word.  My husband (“No more cats!”) set up a cardboard box with an old towel in it.  Sure enough, the kittens, and Mamma, used it to nap in.
  
So, what followed, of course, was some food.  Just dry kibble.  But, well, the pet food here is relatively inexpensive compared to the U.S., so they soon also got some “meatballs in gravy.”  And names, they got names.  Not wonderful names, just some way to differentiate one from the other. 

Mamma was a no-brainer.  One tiny kitten had already been injured somehow, possibly by a larger cat.  Her eye looked awful.  We called her “Pirate.”  The little black one was fierce about food, sometimes smacking the litter mates in order to hog the food.  “Incubo” means nightmare in Italian, and that got shortened to Ink.  The third kitten had a chubby little chowder face…seemingly unkempt in a terribly cute way.  Scruff.  La famiglia
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Things became problematic when the outer door was finished and reinstalled.  Well, the lady around the corner and Marguerite were feeding them, so…I started carting a tray outside each day.  Oh, dear. 

Sibling from a previous litter joined the gang as a regular.  Sib was very timid and skittish, but Sib would hang with Mamma and the kittens and soon got into the routine.

There was another black cat, there were other interlopers from time to time, but this was the core group.

 

(Baby Scruff)

At about three months of age, the babies trusted me enough that we were able to get Pirate to the veterinarian.  The prognosis was not good.  “The eye is lost.”  She was very weak, breathing hard, too thin….back “home” she had some water, just a little, a half-hearted bite of food and settled down on our doormat inside the cortile as she basked in the sun and gazed upon the piazza.  I believe she died that day or the next.  We never saw her again

Little Scruff also had an eye problem, in both eyes.  They were very goopy, with green and/or yellow goop, sometimes glued shut.  I was able to administer antibiotic eye drops.  He got so comfortable with me and the drops, I could do it just lifting his little head up…giving each eye a little wipe with a clean tissue, and he would happily go back to eating. 

After his eyes recuperated, Scruff and I really bonded.  I confess, I was beginning to adore this cat, this plain, ordinary little street urchin.  Just a little gray, striped kitty with a funny face, nothing special.  Except he let me pet him, and pick him up, and he learned his name, and he began purring and then he would schmooze my legs and lean into a head pet.  I was smitten, but “No more cats!” 

Well, it was soon apparent that the other black cat had had kittens. We were walking with Harry on the passaggiata (walkway) and there was black Mamma, tucked in a doorway of a vacant building, and three little heads popped up in the grass.  Each one was cuter than the other.  There was a tabby, a soft gray one with a white bib and a tuxedo kitten, black and white.

It was not long before this family, too, came to dinner every evening.  Now, instead of four, we had eight.  Sometimes ten, depending on how many rogues showed up.

Clearly, there is problem here.  I asked around.  “Does this town have any program for neutering ferals?”  No.  Nothing.

I began to talk about it to my husband and was relieved and surprised when he agreed that we could get as many of them neutered as possible.  But how?  How?  I said, well, the kittens are easy because they let me handle them, but they aren’t old enough yet.  The thing is to get them to trust us, and they are doing that because they get fed regularly.
  
Feeding time also morphed into play time.  I made a couple of aluminum foil balls that the kittens loved to smack around the cortile after they ate.  We set Harry’s airplane travel kennel out in the cortile and put a couple of boxes inside and sometimes one or two of them would nap there,  other times they would just play by sticking their paws through the openings, baiting whoever was outside. 

As far as the older ones, like Mamma and Sib, who would never let me touch them, I ordered a Hav-A-Hart trap from the U.S.  It is used for wild animals and also feral cats.  There is a trip inside for the door, so the cat enters to get food, steps on the trip and the door closes behind them.  Bam!  Then they can’t get out.
  
We had settled into rather enjoyable routines throughout the Spring, Summer and into the Fall, received and figured out the trap, and we had a plan with the veterinarian. The veterinarian was all for the plan because he said that besides their lives being hard and miserable, pretty soon we were going to have a hundred cats in our little piazza.  Cats here have three litters a year.  Three litters, say with three kittens…that’s nine kittens from one cat.  Every year. Just after the holidays we were getting ready to implement “the plan.”

That is when the police showed up at our door.  


I didn’t go out, thinking it was just a delivery, but it was taking a very long time.  I heard my husband talking to someone, but that often happens if we see a neighbor outside.  When he came inside he said that there were three people at the door, the police captain (!!), a “vigili”…a lower level official of some sort…and an unfriendly neighbor who is an attorney and lives two doors down from us. 

He said the attorney wouldn’t shut up, appeared very angry and was talking over the “vigili” who was more or less speaking while looking at the ground and the police officer seemed uncomfortable and bored.  Because two people were speaking at the same time it was very difficult, near impossible to figure out what they were saying.  “Gatti”…”cani”….cats, dogs…poop in the street.  Bottom line….don’t feed the cats anymore.

Another problem here, while on the subject of poop in the street, is that people do not pick up after their dogs.  The town even installed “dog drops”…separate green “eco” drops for dog poop, but still people don’t bother.  We do.  We have always picked up after Harry.  Everyone in this piazza, possibly the town, knows it, too.  They certainly see us enough.
  
That being said, yes, the cats were pooping in the piazza.  Two points here…there have ALWAYS been feral cats in this piazza.  Second, there has ALWAYS been someone around to feed them.

And while this trio also knocked on the doors of our friends across the street, and Domenico, who has nothing at all to do with it, and the other lady down the block, it felt very much like we were being singled out for a reprimand because we are foreigners.
  
After this incident, Domenico came over to assure us we were “not in trouble” and that this guy is a “bad neighbor.”  Yes, well, we knew that…who calls the police over something like this?  Why not just talk to us?  My husband was periodically cleaning up the messes from the cats, too…….not that anyone screaming at our door was interested in that tidbit.

Later, Tony and Marguerite came over to assure us of the same.  Then Marguerite promised to help us with “the plan” by driving us to the veterinarian.  (It is a rather long walk, especially if you are carrying something.)  THAT was the most wonderful thing!

They also said that they were going to continue to feed the cats….and so was the lady down the street.  So, we did, too…under cover of darkness…down an alley…on a piece of newspaper…so there was no evidence in the morning and then we threw the paper away.

At this point, initiating “the plan” seemed to take on a new urgency.  Also, large, rogue, prowling male cats were showing up.  The next mating season was fast approaching
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After a week or so of sneaking out after dark, we started to feed the ferals in the cortile.  They trusted us enough that I could close the outer door while they ate inside.  No one could see them.

One evening a newbie showed up.  This cat looked vaguely familiar.  She walked with her tail high, so I could see she was female.  She walked right in like she already knew everyone.  Right away, she let me pet her.  This was very strange.  Then I recalled the third of the black mamma’s litter – the tortoise shell kitten.  Where had she been?  Why was she here?
  
Observing her the following days, I had the distinct impression she was going into “heat.”  She would sidle up to Scruff, who was indifferent to her advances.  She would sidle up to me, she would sidle up to Harry.  And she started to try and stay inside after all the others had eaten and decided it was time to hit the streets again.

Tee

I kept telling my husband this cat was not feral, not like the others.  Had someone taken her in and then decided to dump her?  I don’t know why…but she won him over.  Not only that, he said to me, out of the blue one evening, “Well, if we get a large enough enclosure, we could keep three cats in the back room.” ????  Three?  Three cats?  Mr. “No more cats!” said we could keep three?  Be still my heart!!!

We moved Harrys kennel back inside, to the back room, set up the water and food dishes and a small cat pan.  T.S. (Tortoise Shell) got shortened to Tee, Missy Tee, Tee-Tee.  And she loved it inside.  She was tired, she was hungry and she was very, very affectionate.

She also had terrible, terrible diarrhea.  Each of us would have to get up in the middle of the night at some point and clean her pan, the odor was horrendous and wafted throughout the entire apartment. 

There is an over-the-counter deworming treatment here, which I quickly bought.  It requires two administrations, two weeks apart.  It is also recommended that it be repeated after two months.  After her second dose, Tee’s condition improved and we were able to sleep through the night again.

Once she seemed rested and healthy enough, we walked her to the vet for spaying because I didn’t want to bother Marguerite since we were going to keep little Missy Tee and we could carry her in a nice, lightweight over the shoulder cat carrier.  Tee came home to recuperate in the kennel and all was well. 

I ordered a cat “playpen.”  It is as tall as I am, with four front doors, two up and two down, three “perches” and I added a cat hammock.  Tee was so happy to be in this little cat palace, loving her soft perches and her hammock.

Being January, in this part of Italy, it can get cold.  We hadn’t had any snow, but there were nights that the temperatures dropped to freezing.  One such night, one of the predatory male cats was outside, terrorizing Scruff.  I was worried and beside myself.  I heard howling.

I was in the living room when the door opened and my husband marched in carrying Scruff into the house! Scruffy!  My boy!  He went into the kennel, Tee’s former digs.  Poor, sweet Scruff seemed exhausted.  Was he in shock or just totally spent?  He ate and slept for an entire weekBy this time, we were letting Tee out of the playpen to explore the house, to be more of a normal cat.  I tried to coax Scruff out of the kennel but he wanted no part of it. He even closed the kennel door on himself.  “No thanks!  I’m good, right here.”

We walked him to the veterinarian, too, got him neutered and dewormed.  Scruff was on his way from being the “Prince of the Piazza” to being a pampered indoor kitty.

Scruff 10 mos.

We had another unexpected addition, and luckily we had an additional cage. 

While I was feeding the usual suspects in the cortile, little Demon came in, too.  Demon, when a baby kitten, was a gigantic loudmouth.  When I walked outside with the food last summer he would wail and echo through the piazza.  He made it hard for me to move because he also tried to climb up my legs!  Hence, the name “Demon.”  He’s a “tuxedo” cat, black and white and oh, so cute.  I noticed in the fall that his breathing had become labored.  He had a loss of appetite, too.  Thoughts of helping him flew out the window because he would not, under any circumstances, let me touch him, not even when he was eating.

This particular night was miserable in every way… cold, windy and rainy.  Demon came in, sniffed at the food but just sat by the others.  In spite of the weather, the regulars all wanted out when they were done eating.  Not Demon.  He was looking for a place to hide.  In my mind, I wondered if he was looking for a place to curl up and die.

To my surprise, as he huddled in a corner, he let me approach him.  He let me pet his tiny head.  He let me pick him up. I believe he had given up, just given up and was totally spent. I rushed into the house, my husband quickly got the new cage ready and we decided we would do what we could in spite of him looking, at this point, like a hospice case. I was able to interest him in some wet food and was somewhat amazed he even made it through the night.

We transported him to the vet as soon as possible and were told he has severe asthma.  It is a type of asthma that is common in street cats and caused by a transmittable virus.  The doctor gave us some steroid medication to give him.  Each small pill had to be cut into 1/8.  Honestly, it was just a speck.  But, this cat maybe weighed a pound…he is half the size he should be for his age and nothing but bones.

After a week and a half of medication we brought him back.  The doctor told us he was only slightly better and had us try another medication along with the steroid on a strict schedule.  He was also put on a stronger worm medicine as he was eating well but still horribly skinny.  I started keeping a daily calendar
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In the meantime, we trapped Mamma, Ink and Scruff’s mother. Marguerite drove us to the doctor and everything went smoothly, except Mamma was not happy at all.  She cried constantly, all day, all night with small respites when she finally drifted off to sleep.

She was desperate to be released and after three days, we took the cage to the outer door and off she went like a streak.

She and Ink and Sib, however, returned for dinner!

The next catch was Calze.  He is soft gray with a white bib and white feet.  Calze means “socks” or “stockings” in Italian.  He was so easy I barely remember it.  No fuss, no fight.  Easy.

His recuperation was easy, too. No dramatics, no crying, just a happy little guy loving getting regular meals and sleeping someplace comfy and warm.  Sooooooooooooo, we wondered about releasing him.  We decided not to.  Three indoor cats became four.  And it’s not my fault. It wasn’t even my idea!


At this point, Demon was showing mild improvement and I just could not saddle him with that moniker anymore.  Demon morphed into Imp.  Now that his eyes were brighter, he was finding his voice again and wanting some affection, Imp seemed to suit this tiny tuxedo very well.

Imp

The last to be trapped was Ink.  And although she did not raise a ruckus for 3 days, she was the most difficult of all.  It took four of us fifteen minutes to maneuver her in the cage to a point where the doctor could sedate her.  She was screaming, all claws extended, trying to bite anything she could.  It was a nightmare, alright.
  
After that, though, she settled into reluctant recuperation.  And she, like Mamma, returned for her dinner after being released.

Scruff frightened us one evening with an episode of difficult breathing and a cough.  He, too, has asthma, but not as severe as Imp.  He is on a Lysine supplement and has improved very nicely.

We are still waiting for another large playpen cage, but in the meantime, the little gang has begun to settle into a bit of a routine.  First thing every morning all cat pans are cleaned up.  We found a corn based litter that not only has no dust (for the asthmatics) but it is totally biodegradable and can be flushed down the toilet.

Next comes breakfast with appropriate medications.

Then comes playtime.  Tee has had the run of the house for a while.  Calze and Scruff have an alternating schedule.  One reason is because they are all still in varying stages of medications and the other is that they are kittens…they never hold still.  Tee is like a little butterfly flitting all over the house.  Calze likes to play with leashes we have attached to the cages, like they are snakes or something wiggling around.  He loves to pounce on them and “catch” them. 

Scruff does the same, but he also raids Harry’s food bowl.  He’s a spaghetti thief.  And, I need to get some scratching mats for them to save the furniture, so we have to monitor them a bit. 

Calze

Today we did let the three of them out at once and it was quite the free for all.  Leap frog, ambush, wrestle, chase…all over the place. After play, it is naptime.
  
Little Imp is still too sick and weak to come out unless it is just to sit in my lap.

Pretty soon, it’s dinner time, followed by another recreation hour.  Then it is evening, time to head back to the playpens, play a little ball inside, bat a leash around and roll around in a hammock until bed.

We were told that the feral cats here can have three litters a year.  We successfully prevented three females from having three litters.  Unfortunately, there appear to be two, or possibly three pregnant females still out there.  We will be ready for the next round and more experienced, too. 

I am allowing one obviously pregnant female into the cortile to eat not just to trap her, but to have her bring the kittens so I can gain their trust early and stop the cycle.

One final note…our veterinarian spoke to the Mayor of our town and told him what we are trying to do.  He mentioned our problem neighbor. However, the Mayor approves, and I am allowed to feed the feral cats in my cortile, no matter who may be screaming at our door.





March, 2020

June Volz

Come prima, piu di prima, t'amero

I've had many cats and dogs over the years.  Although I have loved them all....some stand out more than others...some touched deep heartstrings, and I still cannot say why, in particular.

Huey was my big orange and white baby....found in a basement....among a litter and brought to me.  I adored him and the feeling was mutual.  I sang to him and he purred.  He spoke to me..."The phone is ringing...you might want to answer that."  He would gently pat my eyelids in the morning to wake me up.  He was my first love, my first baby.

I sought another, which, of course, one learns the hard way....you cannot do.  It isn't up to you.  By circumstance a hairdresser in Michigan took in a pregnant cat and I agreed to take a kitten on the condition that she spay the mother.  Which she did.  That became Basil, or Bazz, the Bazz Man.  My little orange grumpy boy.  Much like the cartoon cat Garfield, but slightly sweeter in a curmudgeony way.  He was a nose nipper and would be ultra sweet and then swat you the next moment.  He was Mr. Ambassador, always welcoming whomever we dragged in.  He had a rebel streak and would escape from time to time.....but he lived to be over 22 years of age and died in my arms.

Steve was my hero dog...the best dog ever.  Yes, I know they all are, but he really was. He was amazingly smart and intuitive.  He protected me.  He played with me.  He waited for me to come home, as I could see his silly silhouette in the window...ears would go up, head would cock...."There she is!"...he took care of his harem of cats (Bazz included)...no fighting on Officer Steve's watch!..and he kept me warm on cold winter nights.

He told a joke once....I had a cat named Rathbone (Basil and Rathbone, for Sherlock Holmes fans)...whom I usually called just "Bone."  One evening Steven wanted to play...face in my lap....hah, hah, hah...tail going...he wants to play....in my second story apartment in Astoria, Queens...(meaning, "play" is limited)...so I said "Go get your bone!"...it was one of those "airbones" ..basically a tennis ball in the shape of a dog bone.  Go ahead..go get your bone!....Rathbone was sleeping peacefully on the couch....Steve went to the couch and tried to lift Rathbone …"Bone",,up from the couch....Bone was not amused....but I was...…."Not THAT Bone!  YOUR bone!"...with that, Stevie's tail went wild, his whole back end did a shake and his eyes said it all...."You got it!  You got my joke!"...he was so tickled!

It took me more than three years after his death to even consider another dog....I was devastated....and I still am to some degree.....because Steve was Steve....and there is no other.

So, here we are in Italy and my husband is dead set against another cat.  No more cats. None. Ever.  And...there are cats everywhere in the streets and it is breaking my heart.  So, he says.....well...feed them...other people do.

If you feed them, they will come.  And they did.  We had to give them names to differentiate. Using cumbersome descriptions..."Yeah, the black one, but the smaller black one...one is bigger, that one"..,or "That gray striped one, but the one that is a little darker than the other one"...wasn't working too well.  So...they became Sib, Ink, Scruff, Pirate, Calze, Demon and Mamma...and a few others.  I happily fed them for months and made an agreement with a veterinarian to have whoever I trapped neutered, since there is no program in this obscure hill town.

I was well on the way to fruition of that plan when a neighbor...a lawyer...rather than speaking to us...called the local authorities. (I am not the only one who feeds and shelters the feral cats, by the way)...and we were not singled out, but we had police at our door.  It was not pleasant.

One of those ferals….Scruff...Mamma's baby....Ink is too and Pirate was, but she succumbed to a fatal blow to an eye....Scruff...allowed me to handle him...and I administered medicine to his eyes, which were goopy and often stuck shut. After treating his eyes, he really took a shine to me, as they say.

Here we are now, in winter....it goes down to freezing at night.....and now I am being prohibited from feeding them.  Other neighbors rallied round. Don't listen.  He's a bad guy.  I feed them too.  Don't worry.  Well....we worry because we are "stranieri"...foreigners.

My husband broke......he broke down.  He walked into the house the other night with Scruff in his arms.  Scruff has been in Harry's old kennel for 5 days now....eating, drinking, sleeping....no interest in coming out.  It's as though he is exhausted and he's only 7 or 8 months old.  We open the door and he reaches out to close it again.  It's ok, I'm good in here.  Safe. Warm. Fed.

I pet him and he purrs.  He rolled over this morning...first time I've seen his tummy.  He has come out, but only twice and only briefly.  Very surprising, since he was the little Prince of the Piazzetta....he seems so relieved....and tired.  I love this tiny creature...I have since day one and can't say why.  Something about him touches me.  His funny little face, almost like a miniature bobcat.  His trust and affection.

We are on the brink of species extinction, and I realized today that now I have to live....I have to live for Scruff....he may have 20 years...I'm not sure I have 20 years...I'm not sure the human race does..but now I have a tiny, fluffy, funny faced reason to wake up another day.

Or are we meant to be kind?

After an entire year, we finally, at long last, got our antenna fixed (it had been hit my lightning) and our television hooked up to Italian TV.

Our favorite restaurant in town has one television going.  It is there, really, for Mamma, the owner's mother who works with him.  Being Americans, we usually show up rather early in "Italian time."  That is, we prefer dinner around 7:30 pm, unlike the locals for whom lunch is the major meal of the day and dinner is more like a late snack.  So, we are often the only people there at that hour, with perhaps a couple of kids or a lone man having a beer and pizza.  That is how we discovered "L'Eredita."

"L'Eredita," (The Inheritance) is a quiz show involving words and facts somewhat like the old "College Bowl" game, or "Jeopardy" or "Password."  The Italian twist is that it includes four young, gorgeous models who show up in thigh high skirts and heels and dance for about 30 seconds at the start of each show. They are called "Le Professoresse"...The Professors.....hahahaha.....because at some point in the show the contestants need to guess the meaning of a very obscure word and the "professoressa" explains the meaning when someone finally guesses, or knows in very rare cases.

I have become hooked on this show because it helps me learn to hear the language and helps me realize how much I understand.  It teaches me words and facts, too.  While it is very formulaic, it is also fast paced and most shows here keep the advertisements confined to the beginning and the end of the shows so there are no interruptions.

By the end of each show there are three people out of seven left standing, the others having been eliminated.  Those three come back for the next show.  The top person, at the end, has to try and guess the one word that ties 5 other words together, not in the etiological sense, but in the ideological sense.  For instance, last night, three of the five words were "contract, foto, good" and the answer was "matrimony."

I was surprised that one new contestant last week appeared to my eyes to have autism.  He was little louder in his speech than most, he occasionally hand flapped, but he was very good at the game and lasted an entire week, which is a lot.  The other "survivor" has been the big champion every night, getting to the last stage of the game.  He is tall, has big blue eyes and light brown hair and reminds me of a younger Peter Fonda.  The young man with autism is also tall with thick, dark hair and wears black rimmed glasses, somewhat resembling "Waldo" from "Where's Waldo?"

I have to add that throughout the five shows this kid was on, no one made any mention of a disability, no one gave him preferential treatment and the audience always cheered very heartily when he scored.

But, last night he and the "big" champion had to square off in a timed match, with questions being lobbed like ping pong balls back and forth at lightning speed.  Before they started the kid said, "The best ones!" in English, which surprised me and obviously also the emcee, by the look on his face.  They both were neck and neck but the kid with autism ran out of time just seconds before the Peter Fonda guy.   With that, he clapped in recognition of the winner and went to go offstage, but the champion guy said, "Wait"...aspetta… and marched across the stage and shook his hand, then they hugged.  The audience was going wild.  I was in tears.

And I wondered, would anything like that have happened in the U.S.?  Is it just my imagination, or are people kinder here?  Is it because they come into contact with others every day?  They chat, they greet one another, they have community.  Personally, I believe because of that compassion is more easily fostered.  It shows in everyday encounters and it even shows on a TV game program.

Grazie, Niccolo (Peter Fonda) per essere un gentiluomo.

And when October goes, the snow begins to fly...

October 24th was, for a very long time, a difficult "anniversary" day for me.  It marked the day my father left, a day I can never forget. I would acknowledge it silently, briefly as the wave of inevitable melancholy would wash over me.  Not so much because I lost my father that day but because I lost my childhood.  I lost my entire family.  Nothing was ever the same again.

Now, however, that anniversary has been turned around, not only through the mere passage of time, but because a year ago, it was the day I came to live in Italy.  There was trepidation  mixed with excitement and absolutely no time to dwell on the events of more than fifty years ago.

I arrived by myself, to a house lacking heat and hot water, with very little in the way of "furniture"...tired, cold, dirty, hungry.

Here we are, one year later.  The heat is on, the hot water is wonderful, the toilet is now attached to the floor (!!), our furniture is here, there is a fridge full of locally grown vegetables and nothing processed, food with ingredients that are pronounceable and recognizable.  There is an oven that actually works.  The damage to the walls has been repaired so there are no unwanted drafts or visitors. The balcony is safe.  I can wash and dry the laundry.

In this year I have so far lost eighteen pounds, strengthened my legs and knees and still manage to have lots of wonderful meals and the occasional gelato.

We have already applied for our next Permit to Stay (Permesso di Soggiorno) so that worry is off the list.  Recently we found an above ground cantina (storage space) just a couple of doors away, so our back room can now be transformed from a closet into an actual room, a reading room/guest room of sorts.

This year, rather than a piece of toast and year old (but still remarkably good, thanks to it being semi frozen) wine...there will be prosecco and perhaps a hot casserole dish, a fresh salad and a piece of bread that is heaven with each bite.  There will be music playing under the chandelier in the living room.  Harry will be happily napping on his cushy couch.

This year, October 24th will be a celebration.

When you're a stranger, faces look ugly.....

I have two bills I need to have automatically debited from my account.  It is because I started out here with another bank and found out that it is not the best one for local banking....it was a bank that caters to international customers...and that is what we were as we bought our apartment while still living in the US.

It turns out that it is a VERY inconvenient bank.....and the nearest actual branch is an hour away...and we have several banks at our fingeI nertips right here in town.

SO, I finally switched to the Postale.  The Italian Post Office is also a bank...and a bill pay center....and a tax pay center...it is a very busy place.  But if you have an account with them, you can be assured that wherever you go in Italy, there will be a freaking Postale.

I closed the other and opened this.  Then, naturally, the bills were not getting paid automatically, so I waited for the email bills.  The gas came first and I went to the offices, which are nearby, and they cordially took the new information and I went on my way.  Only to find out that a mistake had been made and I had to go back because my bill was not paid....errrrrrrrrrrrrrr….AGAIN, with the same information...Voila!  It worked the second time.

The other utilities do not have offices nearby.  I have to have the account debited through the Postale.  There is one...small...problem.

The man in charge of "Customer Service'  is an asshole.  Hahahaha.  Yes. He is. He really is.

He apparently does not like "Stranieri" *foreigners.    There are lots of Brits here, some Germans, people from Denmark, Scotland, Norway....He does NOT like foreigners.

I have enough command of the language now to do this, to get this done.  He is...….remote.  Prego, Signora.....yeah,..sure.   So, I sit down, I have my form for the automatic debit, the form HE printed out to prove I have a Postale account, and my three ID cards that I have with me all the time.

"Where is your Codice Fiscale?"..That is like a Social Security number.  >>MY Codice Fiscale?  It's on my Permesso, it's on my SSN,....I HAVE an account here!

"I need your Codice Fiscale"...he "HAS" to make a copy of it...well, guess what?  To open my account he had a copy of it, and my passport, and my Permesso...it's all there,..somewhere...in the freaking computer...….My husband trekked back home to bring back my Codice.

My husband returned with my Codice and this ASSHOLE looked at him...like...what?  Do I want that?  AHHHHHHH....you ASKED for it...…..he went to get it...here it is.  No. No. I need documents.  I need your passport.  OH, hell , you don't ...I have a BANK ACCOUNT HERE!!!!


Oh...you know what?  The computer is down.   Gosh...sorry....I can't finish this...Where is the woman who speaks Italian? (He means my instructor)  "She is not available today.  But I speak enough to do this"......Oh, well....computer down....so sorry.

I went back today hoping the younger guy who is not foreigner phobic would be there but he was not.  I will poke my head in again tomorrow.

I love living here but even Paradise has its drawbacks now and then.  **Sigh***

Oh, baby, it's a wild world....

When I arrived the boiler had broken.  It was uncomfortable, but not dangerous.  However, to fix it properly, it really needed to be relocated inside the house, which meant also relocating the refrigerator.   Since the refrigerator was also on its' last legs, I had no problem with that.

But when the new fridge was delivered and the old one carted away, it was discovered that the refrigerator had been plugged in UNDER the sink...in an exposed outlet.....where it would have been possible for water to leak....or even just moisture ro accumulate.  It was very dangerous.

We had electricians fix the outlets below the sink so that they are now not entirely exposed, should there ever be a leak.  And now, nothing is actually plugged in there, either.  It is a ridiculous place to have an outlet.

After living here awhile, my husband kept saying the toilet moved.  Moved?  Yeah, as in rocked when he was on it.  Turns out it was not attached to the floor.  It was just....plunked there.  I shudder to think of what could have happened had it moved just a little too much one day.....a flood?  I don't know, but we had that taken care of as well.

In the cold of winter, even though I knew the inside of the oven was gross, we decided to try turning it on anyway.  The whole house blew.  Poof...darkness.   Once again the electrician came and told us the outlet and the plug were both ancient and worn.  It was …..dangerous.  We had a new outlet installed and bought a new oven.

Spring approached and we began walking farther....and noticed that the underside of our balcony in the back didn't look so good.  Pieces of cement were breaking away and falling.  Potentially, they could hit someone.  Eventually, the balcony would not be safe to walk on.  We very recently had that work done to reinforce the balcony and waterproof it, too.

We had an American chandelier and didn't know if it could be mounted here in Italy.  The guy who put in our oven said he would do it.  "But, is it safe?  Should the lamp be rewired?  Really, you don't have to do this....we will call an electrician."  "No, no....no problem....I used to own a lighting store."  Errrrrrrrrr.   He would not take "no" for an answer and proceeded to install the chandelier.

We had to get adapters for each bulb since Italian bulbs didn't fit the sockets.  However, he made it work.  Somehow.  And, in spite of our worry, it seemed to work alright.  Except three months later....poof....darkness.  Yeah, well.....not a really big surprise.

Soooooo, we found a nearly identical chandelier but Italy compatible.  We had an electrician put it in. No troubles, no problems....until the old one came down.  "Who did this?"   Ahhhhhhhh…...the entire thing was ready to fall out of the ceiling.  The "hook" it was hanging from inside the ceiling came right out.  Zip.  Wires helter skelter.  A total mess.

We now have the look alike up...bulbs that fit, the lamp isn't going to fall anytime soon, it is in there nice and solid now and running on compatible voltage. The thing is, even with an "Italian" lamp...the wiring inside was a shambles.

Five dangerous things....really dangerous things....so much for inspections.  I understand old appliances and damaged walls....but...FIVE dangerous things!  We are lucky to have discovered them before any calamity happened.

Touch me! It's so easy to leave me...all alone with the memory of my day in the sun.....

I don't think I've mentioned my new purpose in life.  I can hardly believe it myself.

There are too many feral cats here.  And they are all adorable in one way or another.

Well, someone had kittens several months ago..about the time my daughter was here in late March and early April.  Three little kittens.  Two gray and one all black.  Sweet babies.  The neighbor across the street pointed them out to me...and she would drop...literally drop...some kind of food into the street from her window two stories up, for them to eat.

With that, I started noticing them more...and identifying them.  It became apparent that one had a badly injured eye...just a wee baby....it was very upsetting. I was not even sure an eye was still there.

Gradually, somehow, the idea ...the grain of compassion grew....and we decided to get some cat food and start feeding them, too.

Once that started....well...names followed...because you get to identify who is who.  There was the injured one with a bad eye...so he/she was "Pirate."  The little gray who looked sort of unkempt all the time..he was "Scruff."  The black one who was freaking fierce about protecting food...like a nightmare...became "Incubo"  which means "nightmare" in Italian...but now she..(Yes, I think she is a she) is just "Ink."

After those babies became accustomed to being fed at a regular time every day, Mamma and Sib came along.  I remember Mamma.  No, not the TV series...I remember this cat....running around last winter with her baby...who is Sib...short for Sibling...maybe half sibling, maybe full...who knows?  But, they are all family and they know it and now, so do I.

As the summer wore on, we found a wonderful veterinarian...he speaks a bit of English...just enough so we can communicate with our broken Italian....because Harry had a mole on his arm decide to grow and it had to be removed.   I asked the doctor if he would cooperate with me to neuter these feral cats, not matter what their sex.  He said he would. (Machismo runs deep here and most MALE dogs are not neutered.)

So, at this point...my mission was to make sure the kittens became strong enough to undergo minor surgery.  First, naturally, would have to be Pirate, with the awful eye.  Awful, awful eye...bulging out of its head...looking bloody..whatever beast did this should have just finished the job.  This little kitty needed help.

I scooped her up in the middle of eating (sorry, baby) and we marched her to the vet. Yes, she was a she....I was able to check.  Little Pirate was very weak and the vet was not hopeful.  "The eye is lost" and also..."Malato"..."sick."  Yeah, I kind of knew that....but what I didn't count on was that her little life was lost.  We brought her back...she had had a shot....and I had been given a prescription for two kinds of eye drops....

That evening she ate a little and sat on our mat in our courtyard and just gazed out at the piazza.  I sat with her.  I never got a chance to use the eyedrops on her...I never saw her again.  I believe that was her last night...most likely.  Little Pirate.

I still had eyedrops for Scruff, whose eyes were sometimes glued shut from the goo they oozed.  I scooped him up and wrapped him in a towel and brought him into the courtyard where we have a bench.  He panicked and was fiercely fighting to escape but I managed to get drops in both eyes and to clean them both off...before I put him down and let him go like a bat out of hell.  He forgave me rather quickly, though.  His eyes looked one hell of a lot better.

His eyes looked better for days.  Then..not so great.  The next time I just lifted up his little head while he was eating and got some drops in.  He wasn't happy but he put up with me.

Each time I got drops in, his eyes got exponentially better.  It was amazing.  Then the right eye was totally normal...so I just had one eye to concentrate on...now he looks all bright and wide eyed, like a regular cat.

Scruff and Ink are the only two I can handle very much.  Mamma and Sib are still wary, although I have managed to lightly pet each of them from time to time.  They don't like it!  Scruff, however, leans into pets and wiggles his butt and is beginning to look forward to and love his pets.

Tonight, I was warrior woman.  After a thunderstorm, I went to feed the usual gang and there was an interloper....an orange boy with a collar.....who causes trouble whenever he comes around.  Mamma is clearly afraid of this one.. Sib is too but Sib becomes protective and screeches to the high heavens.  It can be blood curdling.  So..I put the food down and then went about discouraging the interloper.

BTW, I think this guy is the one who delivered the mortal blow my little Pirate...I have little compassion for this particular cat and it would give me great pleasure to capture and neuter this bastard.

There was a supermarket flyer in someone's mailbox so I took it and started brandishing it like a weapon at this cat...he was sneaky and trying to find other ways to get at the food but I was there to stop him.  His next tactic was to pretend that he was retreating....going down this alley...bye, I'm gone.....yeah...only to reappear down the road, having come up the next alley.  I'm no fool, cat.  I got your number.

I managed to protect "the family"...they watched, too...and Scruff, I swear, had "the look of love" in his eyes....they ate and I took the tin in when they were done.  Bastard cat came back to nothing.  Not feeding you...bud.  If you were nice, I would, but you cause problems wherever you go.

So...this is my new purpose in life..to try and control the feral population of cats in this little hill town in nowhere, Italy.  Wish me luck.  I need it.