Friends

Our loving faithful unquestioning friends.

You’ve had a dog. You’ve had a cat. Or maybe several. You’ve loved them all and they’ve loved you, each according to his nature.

Dogs will welcome you upon your return from town, probably wondering why you hadn’t taken them along. Jumping up and down and wagging their tails, they vocally let you know how glad they are you’re back.  They’ll sit gazing at you in hopes of a snack (don’t try to outgaze them – no way). They may want to wander in the woods, chase after a car or whatever wild creature they may encounter. But eventually they’ll be back, for this is what you and they call home.

I’ve known various dogs, but always one at a time. Now, living in the country, cats seem to have supplanted them. Some were welcome in the house, some told they must stay outside. They all knew though where their meals came from, they knew who to turn to.

Cats enjoy the creature comforts of some place warm to hunker down in, and of course a good breakfast. Once allowed inside, cats will seek out just the right spot from which to keep an eye on you – might be from the stairs, 

or the top of the old-fashioned computer, or the coffee machine, or your lap.  

Although, if the weather is nice, they might be more interested in chasing lizards who will seek refuge under a rock.

Cats must live their lives (be it one or seven) as they will. Even if it means that one day they may not show up after a morning stroll, having been adopted by someone else (hopefully) or having encountered a fox. I could list the cats that have shown up at my back door, some emerging as kittens, unexpectedly, from the woods behind the house, or perhaps abandoned by an owner who moved elsewhere. 

They will not have the sensible everyday names of Eliot’s cats, such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, or Demeter, but simpler ones such as Blackie or Whitey or simply Mamma Cat.

Elsewhere some who have no specific owner, might turn up at a given time in a small square along the street waiting for a handout. Or it might be along the road leading to the convent at the top of the cemetery, where they are fed by a father in memory of his lost child. Others will congregate at supper time by the convent entrance, waiting for the students to return to their lodgings after a day spent on their knees in an archaeological dig. Their reward is a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs to be shared by the waiting cats who certainly do not disdain a good plate of pasta. I remember how surprised I was when I first came to Italy in 1954 to see cats eating spaghetti.

Cats seem always to have been part of our human lives. From Kipling’s “cat that walked alone” to the countless aloof Egyptian beauties found in the tombs, very aware of themselves, to Puss in Boots and Eliot’s marvelous variety of cats with strange names. Most cats, it is true, do walk alone, and are often treated as royalty. They make few demands on their humans and we in turn give them tasty tidbits, a warm lap to sleep on, and our unconditioned love.  But then that is also what they give us, unconditioned love, as long as they are free to sleep where want and let them become part of our lives. I find it curious that in Italian there is no specific word for pet. The closest is animale da compagnia, animale domestico. On the other hand In German too it is Haustier, domestic animal, while in French it is  simply  “animal de compagnie” or “animal de familier“.

Cats and dogs. Never-failing friends, asking little of us as we accept them as members of our family.  They are more than “simply animals,” for they understand us and our moods. They comfort us when we are troubled, and when they leave for elsewhere, they are sorely missed for we have given them our never-ending love as they have given us theirs.