“ ’Accusation’ and ‘confession’ are the precise (judicial) terms the press, including, regrettably, the Italian press, has used to report the latest news regarding John Edwards, former Democratic presidential candidate, who is ‘accused’ of having betrayed his wife and has been forced to render a public ‘confession.’ The nature of the crime is unclear, also because the charges were brought [not by the judicial authority but] by the tabloids, imagine their authority and ethical correctness… In any case, the story has been clamorously inflated into a full blown political issue.

“Contemporaneously, in Greece, a small country considered less modern and less democratic than the United States, a government official attempted suicide following a sordid scandal involving sex tapes and blackmail. In full agreement, the [Greek] government and opposition declared that an entirely private drama should remain absolutely outside the realm of political speculation, and advised discretion and respect [on the part of anyone who might consider exploiting it]. In the narrow sense, we can assume that an adulterer would be much better off living in Greece than in the United States. In the wider sense, that public opinion in the most powerful Nation on earth tends to concern itself more with the so-called ’sexual morality’ of its politicians than with the war in Iraq or other grave issues. [This is a] case of perversion of the public eye far more serious than the private vices of any public figure.”

I fully concur with Mr Serra. The American public certainly has far more important matters to contemplate than a politician’s private life. Whatever John Edwards did with the woman in question is not a “scandal” but a private matter. Mr Edwards is accountable solely to his wife and family and owes the public no explanation whatsoever.

Grow up, Americans, and open your eyes. Worry about the wars overseas and the needless loss of American lives and the financial and human resources wasted to fight these wars. Worry about the economy and the honest, hardworking Americans who are losing their jobs and their homes, and be glad you haven’t lost yours (yet). Worry about the environment and the rape of our planet’s dwindling natural resources, the decline in public education, and the current administration’s utter contempt for the Constitution. Worry that your children and grandchildren will have a worse world to live in rather than a better one.

The true scandal here is that the tabloid media have yet again hoodwinked a sizeable part of the American public into diverting its attention away from the pressing problems the nation faces and getting it into a lather about a matter that is none of the public’s business.

I don’t know whether to write this story in the present tense or past.

Someone I always remember in my prayers and when I light a candle is Joe, known to the Romans as “Giuseppe.”

A fixture of our neighborhood, Joe is now gone, perhaps forever.

A cultured Englishman, he has lived in the most picturesque neighborhoods of Old Rome since the sixties.  For many of these years his home has been the street. This was by choice and not a question of circumstance. He could no longer live confined by four walls, he told someone. Something changed in his life to provoke his decision, but I will never know what.

Originally, Joe lived on the streets around the Campo de’ Fiori. Then there was some sort of incident with a few of the locals and he moved to our neighborhood, where he felt safer.

Unlike so many of our street creatures, Joe never became a drunk. He used to make a living gathering cardboard boxes and paper from the streets, which he would sell to a local recycler. The shop went out of business several years ago, but as long as it lasted you could see Joe slowly dragging bundles of material bound by twine around the neighborhood, depositing them at some quiet corner, then retracing his steps to drag more bundles to that spot, then watching over them until he had accumulated enough to sell. That was his livelihood. The last bundle, the small one, was not for sale. It contained his personal belongings, blankets, extra sweaters and jackets for the chilly season, that was about it. Did he preserve old photographs or keepsakes from his settled years, when life must have been easier for him?

Someone told me Joe had been a professional nurse in England. Someone else told me Joe was part English, part Scot, that his father had been an eminent professor and that Joe had also been a professor.

For as long as I have known him Joe has always been disheveled and dirty and smelled foul. His shoes were often torn. If they weren’t, he wore them unlaced or unbuckled. Even his feet defied confinement. He had been having trouble with them for years.

By the time I met him Joe had lost most of his teeth, but he was always cordial and courteous, quick to say hello, ask how you were, and had you seen the new exhibit at such and such gallery, and if you hadn’t you should see it at once because it was true art.

And had you seen Joe’s buddy Romeo, the stray macho tiger with the huge eyes, the cat who could mesmerize you with his gaze, around? Romeo had been savagely attacked, so savagely that his leg bone stuck out through his lacerated flesh. The local vet cured Romeo’s leg, then it was ciao to the balls, and a kind woman took him in and gave him a home with a rooftop to roam so he would not be totally confined.

The “you” in these conversations was “me” and though I always felt for Joe, deeply enough to remember him in my prayers by name, I never wanted to over engage in conversation. I never wanted to get too close and, I am sure, neither did he.

Despite his appearance and odor, Joe was generally liked and accepted in the neighborhood. He often had his cappuccino and brioche at the counter of the cafe in the piazza, chatting amiably with the manager and the baristas.

Joe never spoke about himself and his past, what he had done in his life, why he lived on the street, how he had come to this point. Joe always exhibited a great, positive spirit and ably hid his darker thoughts, his difficulties, from public scrutiny.

He asked me for change only once; otherwise he never asked me for anything. And he never begged. 

A few months ago I offered Joe one of my canes. The pharmacy sold them as a pair and I only use one. He was surprised by my offer and insisted he didn’t need it. Someone told me a well-to-do Englishwoman in our neighborhood gave him pocket money regularly, but only a little at a time. Living and sleeping on the street made Joe vulnerable to robbery.

For safety’s sake, Joe preferred to sleep during the day in some quiet corner and stay awake in the afternoon and through the night. Recently, in the late afternoons between lunch and dinner, he would sit at one of the empty tables at the famous restaurant in the piazza to pass the time, sometimes watching the world go by, sometimes with a vacant stare. The waiters went about their business setting up and sometimes chatted with him. Joe always knew when it was time to leave. No one had to ask him.

A few years ago during a very cold winter the priests arranged for him to sleep in a warm, clean room on their property and he wisely accepted. He also slept in during the winters that followed.

Joe loved the annual Christmas Day lunch that is held in the nave of the historic church in the piazza. The pew benches where the faithful cry through weddings and funerals are turned into seats around long tables, and volunteers serve a great feast to the poor and the lonely, to the neglected and the rejected, under the richly gilded ceiling with a painting of the Madonna rising to heaven. Much of the neighborhood turns out. Some years the current president or an ex-president of Italy puts in an appearance. The press covers the event every year and many times you could see Joe being interviewed on the evening news praising the feast. He is a handsome man with a face full of character, a face a camera could love.

The day manager of the cafe in the piazza has now informed me that Joe was having serious skin problems in addition to his foot problems and has been taken to England for care.He may never return to Rome, where he has lived most of his life. I can only hope his great, positive and cordial spirit will prevail, that he will adapt to his new environment, even if it is within four walls, and will let his caregivers give to him.

Many expatriates I have known finally leave Rome toward the end, when they want to be cared for on their native soil. Most of these people have been economically privileged.

I can’t say what the future holds for me, but I hope I will never have to leave Rome. I am always an American, but Rome is my native soil.

I offer up a prayer now for Joe and Evaristo, for La Signora and her cats, and for the neglected and the rejected, urbi et orbi, in Rome and in the world.                

Then there is Evaristo, an outstanding eccentric in a neighborhood known for its eccentrics and the often excessive tolerance, which may just be a form of resignation, of those who live within the lines. 

An elderly artist, wiry, with long, wispy white hair and most of his teeth gone, Evaristo dresses in a style all his own, with hats or scarves, bracelets or necklaces he may have found in the garbage or fashioned himself. He is an “attaccabottoni” with a passion for engaging anyone and everyone in rambling, if not eternal, conversation. If you let him, he would chew your ear off.

I never cared to converse with Evaristo. Not because he is eccentric (frankly, so am I), but because I never wanted to take the time.

Also, I regarded him as a nuisance. I know no person’s life and character can be summed up in a word, and, I admit, some people over the years regarded me as a nuisance, too. These were people who didn’t know me well and wouldn’t help me realize my aspirations. 

When I lived in my previous flat, across the piazza from his, Evaristo started ringing my bell on Sunday mornings to inquire about his cousins, who lived across the hall from me. I rarely saw and didn’t know these people and, after much insistence on my part, he stopped. Morning, noon or night, Evaristo was always striking up conversations with the young tourists who roam our neighborhood. He spoke Italian and broken English, and they their own language and broken Italian. He had a fondness for pretty girls.

Evaristo was gregarious, but he must have also been lonely with a craving for attention. A few years ago he hung huge permanent displays of colorful puppets, dolls and sundry objects loosely strung together from two of his windows overlooking the piazza. People who passed along the main street toward the hub of our neighborhood seemed to delight in these displays and wondered about the person who lived there. I always thought these creations were an eyesore but, aside from my personal opinion, if they ever fell from the windows they could seriously injure a passerby.

For a time on weekday or Saturday mornings Evaristo got into the habit of turning his powerful stereo up full blast so the whole piazza between his flat and mine could hear the nuns reciting the Holy Rosary on Vatican Radio. Not that he ever struck me as particularly religious, but, then again, I didn’t know much about him. For a time he used to roam the neighborhood streets in the quiet afternoon hours, siesta time, or sometimes late at night with a blaring transistor radio hanging from his wrist. Just in case you wanted to get some sleep, he was the angel who kept you from it.

A few months ago I asked a neighborhood friend, our local “gazette,” about him because I hadn’t seen him in a while. Gazzetta is not a gossip by nature, but she is exceptionally well informed about what’s happening in our little corner of the earth. She told me Evaristo, who lives in the building adjacent to hers and in his more vivacious moments just a few years ago used to throw his smelly garbage straight out the back window into the inner courtyard shared by their two buildings, had grown depressed and wouldn’t come out anymore. He has removed most of the objects from the windows now and his shutters are always closed, but those that remain testify to his presence.

Another friend told me Evaristo often went to the local hospital late at night to scrounge food from the kitchen. If there was anything left, the staff always obliged him.

For years his signed drawings adorned the walls of one of our local chicken and pizza dens. They were filled with color and whimsy and rendered with a deft hand. When the shop remodeled the drawings disappeared. Evaristo would tape small photocopied announcements with his name and phone number on light posts or on building walls, inviting people to see his art. He wasn’t having an exhibit. If you called him, he would arrange to meet you and talk.

Evaristo always wanted to count for something, and as he aged and grew lonelier it must have been difficult for him.

Evaristo was, and is, an artist. Although he has now withdrawn, he was, and is, a piece of our neighborhood that is slowly changing even as it remains the same.

I imagine someone from the parish checks up on him every day and makes sure he eats and is well.

Perhaps Evaristo will end up like my beloved neighbor at Trevi Fountain, Nonna Giulia. When she decided her time had come she took to her bed and died a month later, tired but in apparent good health, tended to by her daughter. At the venerable age of 93 she hadn’t done it all or seen it all, but she had had enough.

I should try to remember Evaristo more often in my prayers and when I light a candle.

“The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Jaded Romans love to toss off this nugget of wisdom.

Another, that I have been hearing ever since I settled in Rome, is that 15 or 20 years ago Rome was a much better place to live. ”World weary” Romans who subscribe to this idea may be under the illusion they have “done it all and seen it all.” 

My first landlady, at Trevi Fountain, the Red Countess, who left her spacious flat next to my tiny studio for long stretches of the year to indulge her passion for painting and the country life in Tuscany, always grumbled that Rome had once been better, as did several illustrious filmmakers I met over the years and never had the opportunity to work with.

To my eyes Rome remains eternally beautiful and things change even as they remain the same. When I settled in Rome decades ago I was younger and slimmer and had my whole life before me, along with the dreams I hoped to realize, so, from that perspective, things certainly were better then.

I have not “done it all or seen it all,” nor do I expect to. I have never framed my dreams and aspirations in those terms. Now, in my lovely neighborhood of Old Rome, the glorious scent of jasmine is fading as the first heat of June strikes, and my life’s adventure continues, moment to moment.

People go, life goes on, and one may barely notice their passing.

For years I used to bump into the Signora De Aristocratis around the neighborhood. She was a thin Roman of a certain age with salt and pepper hair pulled back off her lightly wrinkled face, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, casually elegant in loose fitting slacks and shirt, usually with a cigarette in her hand. Signora De Aristocratis was one of those upper class woman used to commanding others with nothing less than the utmost courtesy, but she was not a woman to be commanded.

She always did her shopping alone but would banter about the state of the neighborhood and other light topics with the shopkeepers. If she was like me, she engaged in long and silly conversations with her feline babies.

Most of the time we crossed paths at the butcher’s, where she bought choice cuts for her circa 30 Norwegians.

La Signora was a chain smoker, and I often wondered what would happen to her precious cats if something happened to her. We never struck up more than a passing acquaintanceship, just a “buongiorno” and a superficial exchange of cat news as the butcher ground her beef to Norwegian cat-palate perfection.

I have precious cats, too, never as many as she had, but mine are all from the street, spayed and neutered.

La Signora was a snob about her cats, a snob about the veterinarians she used, a snob about who she would allow to take care of her cats. A “gattara” like precious Bambi, who works in cat colonies and on the streets saving strays, no matter how expert in handling felines and administering therapy, never crossed the threshold of La Signora’s lovely apartment with enchanting views over the Roman  rooftops. La Signora was afraid a “gattara” might bring in germs on her clothes or shoes that could infect them.

A month or two ago I asked the butcher about her. He informed me she had passed away two years earlier. And her cats? Taken care of by the heir. How? Where? The butcher couldn’t say.

The butcher lost a good customer, and the cats lost their mommy.

I, too, worry about what will happen to my cats if I precede them leaving this life and Rome. 

Now, when I walk to my favorite café in the piazza I look up at the top floor flat La Signora used to inhabit. The roof terrace is still entirely enclosed, sides and top, by the heavy wiring that protected her cats, but no one is there to enjoy the view.

I pray someone is caring for her cats the way she would have wanted.

I didn’t order as much as I might have because I didn’t want to take advantage. Half a portion of rigatoni all’amatriciana (with bacon and tomato sauce sprinkled with Parmesan because I have never taken a liking to pecorino), a plate of pollo alla romana, coarse and crusty Roman bread to sop up the sauce, all the sauce, and flat water. Wine would have definitely aided digestion, but I sleep late. If I drink a glass of wine with lunch I will go right back to sleep again in my own version of the Roman “dolce far niente” (”sweet to do nothing”), which is more or less the story of my life.

A word about this particular version of pollo alla romana. It is a variation of chicken “cacciatore” with tomato and without olive oil. Many traditional trattorie stew their version of pollo alla romana in a thick tomato sauce with sliced bell pepper, but not at this particular trattoria so close to my heart, my soul, and my gut.

A few weeks ago I told the lady in charge of the tables I might one day fling myself into the pot of chicken bubbling on the stove and lap up the thin but intense sauce, which is positively inebriating despite the absence of alcohol. She seemed quite amused as she envisioned the possibility. I could pay the ladies in their tiny, overcrowded kitchen no higher compliment.

The dark meat of the chicken is cut into eighths and braised slowly, skin and all, in a sauce of canned tomatoes reduced to a liquid in the mini pimer, white wine vinegar, rosemary, a bit of garlic, and hot pepper to tingle the palate. As the meat cooks, the chicken fat under the skin is rendered and binds with the other ingredients to make this sauce memorable.

For a Jewish girl whose memories of the rendered chicken fat in her mother’s chopped liver now reside in heaven, this is almost as good as it gets. I am now a (somewhat lapsed) Catholic with a catholic vision and believe, or hope, my Jewish mother has earned a place in paradise even though she didn’t believe in it.

But, who am I to judge?

And what did I do to earn my free lunch?

Yesterday, forgetting for a moment I no longer live in Manhattan, I rushed off in my usual fashion to the trattoria because my cleaning girl was due at my door in less than an hour. On the way, three distinguished Italian out-of-towners, a man and two women in their sixties, asked me for directions to a well-known restaurant nearby. I had to inform them their first choice was open for dinner only. They inquired about another known establishment, then another, and I said it might be better not to chance places whose better days were long behind them.

They followed me to the neighborhood trattoria, which, I warned, offered no-frills home cooking in a modest but typically Roman atmosphere: paper covering the tables instead of cloth, cutlery (one knife, one fork per customer) which remains on the table for the whole meal rather than replaced after every course, convenience store glasses for wine and water, paper napkins. It is not unusual to see habitués enter, claim their seat by throwing a jacket over a chair, and set their own place instead of waiting for one of the daily rotating servers composed of the owner’s very extended family to do the job.

As we walked down the little streets, I pointed out a wonderful restaurant that was always closed on Monday and told them to try it on their next visit if they wanted a more varied menu, and we exchanged predictions on the national elections taking place in mid-April.

When we entered the mom-and-pop place, I introduced them to the lady in charge of the tables as the “pavesi,” wished them a “buon appetito” in this surviving nook of authentic Rome and settled into a small table by myself in the corner of the first room. They were seated in the inner room so that was the last I saw of them.

When I returned today for a more leisurely meal, the lady in charge of the tables told me my lunch had already been paid for by the “pavesi.” Evidently, they had enjoyed their Roman experience. She gave me their card, which they had left with her, and relayed the news that I would be their guest if I ever visited their home town.

I have never travelled to their town but it has always been on my list. Maybe one day I will actually make the trip and see its architectural wonders and perhaps bump into my chance acquaintances once again.

In the meantime I will send them an email to thank them for lunch.

I went for espresso and a light breakfast at my favorite cafe in the piazza this morning. The sky was grey and overcast but, at least for the moment, the rain had stopped. I sipped my coffee and treat at the bar in silence shoulder to shoulder with a sixtyish gentleman from the neighborhood with whom I usually exchange a “good day,” but the cafe was crowded and noisy because the chilly weather had dissuaded patrons, a mix of locals and international visitors, from sitting outdoors, so any pleasantries went unspoken.

A few minutes later I passed the newsstand on my way to run errands and the gentleman caught me by surprise: “Sì, signora, lei è veramente fortunata perche vive la bella vita.” (”You’re a lucky lady living the good life.”)

Instantaneously and in silence, one version of the good life (X-rated) flashed through my mind and I replied: “Perche? Perche ho appena mangiato un tramezzino con tonno e carciofini”? ( “Why? Because I’ve just eaten a sandwich with tuna and preserved artichokes”?)

The newspaper vendor smiled at my humor and the gentleman replied politely:

“No, signora, perche il tramezzino si è lasciato mangiare da te.” (”No, ma’am, because the sandwich allowed itself to be eaten by you.”)

Happy Anniversary, Mommy and Daddy. It would have been 67 years, but you didn’t make it that far. Gone, but not forgotten. Always a part of me, always in my heart.

Interruptions like these bring me to a stress-anxiety-exasperation level I thought possible only in New York. To get the stream going again when I finish the conversation is frustrating and sometimes impossible. I came all the way back to easy-going Roma, the city of my dreams, to live like this?

The first time the cell sounded this morning I was in the privacy of home. Tiger and Scampolo poked around the bathroom for a moment but left without disturbing me. The second and third time I was in a public handicapped facility, meaning spacious and less of a line but no lock on the door. So, in addition to the double whammy of the ringing phone and the ringing phone finding its way to the remotest corner of my overstuffed purse, I could not keep the door shut by extending a leg or an arm and had to hope the people waiting their turn would have the good sense to knock before turning the handle.

No such luck.

Each time I answered, Renato was on the other end calling to let me know his whereabouts with the Mercedes and when to expect him.

At moments like this, I would rather return to the hot flash phase of my existence. The upside would give me back 15 years of my youth. Heaven-sent. The downside would find me living in New York City again. Hell-bent.

Not that I have a choice. I can’t reclaim the 15 years and I can’t forgo my daily dose.

By the time Renato arrived I had put a jovial and sincere smile on my face and was ready to start another day. The morning included three more rest stops before lunchtime, which could have easily been six. Lasix has that effect on people. However, performing my (day) job, I was unable to give in to all my urges.

At least the cell didn’t ring again.

Renato and I had a fine time at work together. Sitting next to him in the Mercedes I noticed under the dashboard between us a paperback Bible in Italian he probably reads in his down time. I hope it brings him a measure of solace. That grace may descend, that he may transcend.

That evening I decided to go to the local pizzeria for take out. In the summer the owners put most of their tables out in the piazza in front of a small church, and every night of the week a mob of Romans and tourists mill about, sometimes for 30 or 40 minutes or more, to secure their place under the stars caressed by a cool breeze after the scorching heat of day.

The overburdened waiters scurried non-stop in and out between the kitchen, pizza oven, cashier and piazza, arms and hands laden with food and drink, as I waited at one of the few indoor tables for my thin crust mushroom and mozzarella in a box. After a minute or two a mother and son came in to place their order.

The mother, a petite blonde, attractive and attractively clad in tight black top and slacks, took a seat near me. Even though empty chairs ringed her table, without a word or gesture between them her son enthroned himself, facing forward, on her lap, as if her lap were the most natural, really the only, place for him. With dark eyes and straight jet-black hair that fell over one side of his forehead, the boy was very handsome indeed. He wore a black top and white slacks. With their deep golden tans, they looked beach clean and beach relaxed. The boy’s height seemed to indicate he was younger than I thought, his face, older than I thought. When I paid him a compliment his mother said with a soft smile that he was 12.

As they waited for their order, she placed an arm around his waist and dreamily rocked her upper body back and forth, resting her head on his back with each forward movement. Madonna and child, the fleeting moment was yours to savor.

From a distance, I savored your moment, too, silently acknowledging my good fortune to be living in Rome again.

Without mincing words, let me tell you. I am a hooker (ho, ho, ho) with a heart of gold. Priceless.

Three days a week I call the car service. They send me their deluxe model with a top chauffeur and I make my rounds.

Three days a week I lock away the “challenging” aspect of my personality and bring comprehension, warm eyes and smile, marshmallow softness, and a particular style of charm to my profession. The “mature” and “chubby” are always with me. What can I do about that?

Now you might ask, why would an American female with a college education cross the ocean for this line of work?

This is not the line of work I had in mind when I moved to Rome. I have had other jobs, many too boring to mention, but the comfort and consolation business is what keeps me active now.

I certainly couldn’t be the only Phi Beta Kappa who practices, either in Italy or elsewhere in the world. Mine is a profession that requires intelligence.

I might not have understood this in my callow years, but I know now that men are not just about the penis. Especially not the men I come into contact with. My clientele is graying, balding, well-to-do and well-mannered and sometimes they have a void to fill. Not just my void, but the void within.

They may be nearing or past retirement age and although they are financially secure, at a certain point in their lives the anxiety, a malaise, light or profound, is harder to keep at bay. They may fear the future and physical decline. Even more, they may fear themselves. They need the human touch, however fleeting, to relieve it. And that is what I provide.

Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they look me in the eyes, sometimes they don’t.

The boring ones will tell me their wives or girlfriends don’t understand them. The intelligent ones know better and never speak ill of the other women in their life. The most intriguing barely speak at all, and sometimes that speaks volumes. The best have a sense of humor.

The most enjoyable aspects of my profession:

a) I have no pimp to satisfy. I am not a kept woman. I am my own girl. I work only when I want to, by appointment, always at their place, not mine. This gives me plenty of time for myself, for my dreams, for my cats, and for my blogging, and I do not have to keep my apartment perfectly presentable. The domestic assistant cleans up only after the cats. Alone, within my own four walls, I am not a paragon of neatness.

b) The only entanglement is of the loins. There is no emotional baggage.

c) I never, ever have to fake an orgasm. I relax and let my natural empathy well up from its deep source. I feel my clients’ pain, their need, and respond. Some men need to be loved just like babies. Giving them comfort and consolation brings out the best in me, and the gratification I receive cannot be quantified.

My clients and I are at an age when our thoughts often turn to the “ultimate concerns,” and this makes us vulnerable. After all the thrashing about and thrusting and moaning and groaning, we might just lie quietly side by side for a spell listening to the sound of our breathing, sometimes holding hands, holding on to life. So, at the end of a tryst, there is always an element of sadness, and the mercenary aspect is not secondary, but wholly irrelevant.

Not nice.

If Nuvola were a person and not my Dainty Princess, she would have taken immediate exception to the insult, which roughly translates as “shithead.”

Many cats have lost their temper with Bambi. The surprise is that Bambi lost her temper with a cat. She has never been anything but gentle and loving with all my creatures, never raising her voice and always exercising special patience that makes therapy fairly easy.

Nuvola is a petite darling, 10 years old. She is mostly white but has a tiger striped tail and markings on her legs and nose and tiger markings on her head that resemble a crown. She has natural “liner” around her eyes and, in her prime, was a plumpish butterball, soft and smooth to the touch. When I put special treats out for the cats, she will always reach her paw in to take her morsels and nibble off the floor instead of competing with the dominant personalities jostling to eat straight from the plate.

Nuvola suffers from chronic colitis, and she has reached a point where her malnutrition requires additional therapy. Along with a high protein diet, weekly vitamin B supplement and an increased dose of prednisone, she is supposed to have fluid therapy for 7-10 days. Some days I have been able to catch her and put her in the bathroom until Bambi arrives, but since Bambi is punctual Roman-style, I hate to keep Nuvola shut in the carrier for any length of time.

Sometimes Nuvola hides behind the door inside the living room cabinet when Bambi arrives. Seated on the floor, Bambi is usually able to give her the therapy there. Not yesterday. Yesterday, Nuvola scratched Bambi and, after insulting her and flinging the fluid-filled syringe across the room, Bambi refused to waste any more of her time on my Dainty Princess.

All the while, Cubby Duccio sat in the dry bathtub behind the shower curtain with the bathroom door wide open waiting for his therapy.

So, what made Bambi snap? A combination of fatigue and stress? Except for our mutual passion for cats, we do not confide in each other, so I hope her indisposition is temporary.

Today Bambi made up with Nuvola.

I had Nuvola ready in her carrier in the bathroom when Bambi arrived. Bambi spent a minute or two stroking her head and talking softly to her before she injected the fluid. Then she called Nuvola “patatina” (“little potato”), in Rome a humble term of endearment.

Italian can be such a beautiful language.