Observing Brutus

By Erika’s granddaughter Costanza, age 10, 2008

She sits in the sun and licks one paw, stopping only to listen to the birds and the squeak of the pencil.  She looks at Panza, the other cat, incredulous and sort of like a “boss”, who makes believe he is sure of himself and fierce. Now she moves and looks at a flower. She returns to where she was and sits down, then gets up and comes toward us, rubs on us and leaves. She observes a blade of grass and sniffs the air. She jumps on the bricks and back to the grass and it’s impossible for Erika to draw her. There she is at the sage bush, she observes it suspiciously for five second and goes on to the rosemary, climbing up on a rock, in her untiring “Tour de Jardin”. I can barely see her. Better now. She stares at a black hose, then a passing insect makes her move. She advances oscillating among the nettles, continues in a thick blanket of grass. A cloud of little flies bothers her, and she moves on. She moves on in the thick blanket of grass, as in her life as a cat, a thick blanket of mystery.

Kipling got it right. The Cat That Walked Alone.

2 thoughts on “Observing Brutus

  1. I remember Costanza’s writings from about that age. A great observer and very articulate in what is probably a second language. Thank you for this!


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