Cat and bells
Cat and bells
I saw a cat today. The cat I see most days on my walk up a hill that, for centuries, teemed with pilgrims, prayers. His name is Pippo. I won’t post his photo because I wouldn’t like to see an image of one of my cats onlinewithout permission. Instead, I’ll add a photo of one of my own cats, because a short piece about a cat is nothing without a photo of cat, is it? So, there’s Chief below. He’s a teenager now.
Pippo round, glossy, a swirly, stripy confection in chocolate, toffee and caramel shades, loves to mooch on the hill. He will allow rubs, sometimes rolling over to show you exactly “here please”. The line between just enough and too much is fine. His claws are sharp, reflexes quick. It is necessary to be alert, cautious.
His family lives on the upper floors of a centuries-old building on the hill. Previous occupants could well have leaned out to see the pilgrims heaped with intentions pass by, the Tuscan hills and salvation dead ahead.
When neighbours see Pippo at the front door, they ring the bell for him to be admitted. Today, there was nobody home, so the bell ringer offered to have him to her place until they returned.
‘Well, Pippo?’
‘No thanks,’ he said. Yes, he did.
‘I’m good. The day is nice. Bound to be a few more rubs in the offing. I’ll wait.’
In the midst of death we are in the life, I thought, as a tv blared lunchtime news from Gaza and Ukraine.
Life simple, thoughtful according to Pippo and his neighbours.
