For Everyone Who Loves Rufus
Rufus the Cat, 2002
Sound of the deer in the woods
Eyes open to see the ‘roof’ of the underside of the tractor
The night before, bed was carefully folded pool towel ~ ah, variety
Cruise the village for greetings and breakfast
The village cat has an empire that stretches the length of the little village,
The surrounding wild woods and olive groves
The vineyards and vegetable patches outside the village walls.
And a patchwork of back gardens laced through the town.
The village is waking
Three wheeled farm trucks buzz through the single, narrow street
Flowers are watered, morning greetings exchanged.
People to and from the bakery with crackly bags of fresh bread, slices of foccaccia; munching. Sometimes a bit tossed his way.
The restaurant, the Owner just sweeping
Sun on the terrace, dancing through the grape leaves of the arbor
A plate with morsels of cheese and trimmings of meat
Pause for a bath in a spot of sun on the warm bricks.
As a teenager, this terrace had been his first home
He was born in a large piazza in another village
Lots of other cats, lots of competition for food. Cars.
On market days, trucks and men with boots who didn’t appreciate cats
Graziella, working in the Café L’angolo had swept him up, carried him here.
She lived above the restaurant with her four children
Four sets of hands to pet, though one set tended to torment a bit
But he had always been an outdoor cat, curling up on their beds only once or twice a week, except in winter.
But one day they were gone. Moved to another village.
He didn’t care much, as he was independent.
He missed the children, but not the tormentor-boy.
Life assumed a slightly different rhythm, without them.
He continues his morning prowl,
Cats along the way pay homage as he is the village Alpha cat
He is large and white ~ seems even larger because of his long, fluffy fur
His age is noticeable by the bent and broken ears, badges of the many cat-battles necessary to maintain his status. He is proud.
Everyone in the village knows him,
They know that the Little American girl loves him, and her mother, too, their garden his palace.
They know that the Little Old Farm Lady who lives next door to this girl
Feeds him and his calico lady-friend regularly; pasta, soaked bread and a little cat food. All mashed. Fresh water.
If he were to say where Home is
He would say in this garden, with Lady, the sleek calico kitty
Terraces ~ both sun and shade, gurgling fountains,
A high wall all round, easy to feel safe.
And the vegetable garden where he spends the hot summer days under the leaves of the artichoke or zucchini plants
Life is good. Life is routine.
When the American lady is home, he goes inside and sleeps on her lap
On the foot of her bed, or the Little Girl’s
He eats from china plates ~ cat food and delectable morsels of people food
Trips to the veterinarian are routine.
Some pills, some shots, some cream to keep the fleas at bay
The taking of temperature, the poking and prodding.
“a little older, Signora. Fewer teeth, yellower teeth,
Old cat, who still fights, but he’s fine all things considered.”
The years were passing ~ 12 or more, no one knew
He has fewer teeth now, more scars from the cat-battles
He is still the Alpha cat, but there seemed to be more kittens this year
All of whom watched him, as he strode by on his rounds.
Then something changed. Lady, his calico lady-friend had died for no reason.
He found her in the garden on the terrace.
She looked like she was sleeping.
He didn’t come back to the garden for a long time.
The American Lady came and the garden seemed safe again, but lonely.
But then one day everything changed.
The fight with the young, ginger cat started the same as they all did
Loud voices, calls of challenge,
Lunges, and spits, swipes with paws and then with claws
When they locked into the fight grip,
He felt the teeth in his leg,
This didn’t happen very often, not for a long while
He bit back, a paw, a claw, fur flew
When it was over, he knew he had taken a beating,
His ears were scratched and bleeding ~ again
The bite on his leg throbbed. He limped.
The claw in his mouth, he still felt that wound
He cleaned and went to sleep
The next day was slow and bad
He limped. The wounds, in his leg and his mouth were sore
The scratches on this ears and head were no worse than usual,
But he didn’t feel like cleaning, his mouth hurt.
He spent the day in the olive grove, seeking shade and cool
A drink of water in the afternoon was painful
He didn’t feel like eating,
He slept. He didn’t go to the garden. It was a high climb to get over the wall.
The days went by and he felt worse and worse. It was summer-hot.
Now he couldn’t get over the wall into the garden
He limped down the street in the village
People whispered, commenting on his dirty coat and his limp.
He was thinner, now. Much thinner.
The street seemed longer. The summer sun was searing
He found the front gate to the garden open.
Three kinds of food was put out, but he couldn’t eat. The American lady wasn’t home and her friends were confused about how to help.
Back on the village street again. Very tired. Weak.
Then hands scooped him up. A new lady and a gentleman. Occasionally in the village. A house across the street. Rapid Italian. Angry that he was so sick. Shouldn’t happen.
Signora and Signore. Lots of talking. A long car ride he didn’t remember well.
A new vet. Shots. Temperature probe. Pills.
Sleeping on a new terrace. New smells. New sounds.
Days spent sleeping, interrupted only by eating.
A new cat when he awoke, Black and sleek.
After a week, he felt better and curious about this terrace
There were no sounds of deer or little farm trucks
No smells of bread. The sounds of lots of cars, going fast. Trucks.
Buses, too. City smells like the piazza where he had been young.
The terrace was not in a garden. It was on a roof. With a towered loggia.
It was draped with flowers and marked by potted lemon trees
The tower roof cast deep, cool shade. The flower trellis, dappled shade
There were chairs and footstools, inside and out. Pigeons visited, but never stayed long.
From the first he had a basket lined with a soft clean towel.
Dishes of food appeared, lots of food, thanks to the gentle Signora and the Signore.
Water always. The Black Cat, always. Aloof, but friendly.
Hands brushed his matted fur, sponged the tractor grease.
One day, he heard the voice of the American Lady, calling his name.
He went to the edge of the terrace, pushed his head between the banisters.
There, below, stood the American Lady and the Little Girl.
They were calling to see him. That he was safe and alright.
He looked around.
He was on the penthouse terrace of a villa in a large city!!
Beyond the forest of buildings, below, was a silvery sliver of a river
The red roofs of the city danced away, framed by sloping treed hills dotted with villas
In the center of the city was a huge, glowing red dome of a church, a tall elegant bell tower and a huge elegant palazzo with a tower!!
The American lady and the Little Girl seemed so small.
Signore picked him up and showed him to them, all that way down.
The man smiled. The American Lady put her arm around the Little Girl and squeezed.
The man set him down and waved. “come back and visit!” They waved.
The Little Girl smiled bravely. He could tell she was sad, but brave.
He wanted to go down and have her pick him up.
But she was gone a lot. They both were. Signore and Signora were home all the time.
He wanted to return to the village, the olive groves, the gardens.
He knew however, that this was his new home.
His remaining teeth, his tired bones both told him
That this elegant penthouse, with the view of the city
The view of the shining river and the huge domed church
This was home now. Maybe he would visit the other house of Signora and Signore ~ in his village
Maybe the Little Girl would be home and they could spend the day in the garden
Maybe some morsels from the Owner of the restaurant.
But for now, this Italian Palazzo was a good place for an old, village cat.