Making friends with an Italian cat.

My Italian true love’s teen-age niece Giorgia and sister-in-law Giuliana live in a small village. Portoscuso. Near us.  In  a nice high-rise building. A 10-minute walk from the Mediterranean Sea. One more example of the paradise I’ve found on the island of Sardinia.  Anyway, they have a nice view of everything, including spacious villas and orange-tiled roofs, from their fourth-floor abode.  But what I like most is the wide winding spiral marble stairwell leading to their entry door.  It has an art deco design, including man-sized oval windows that allow in ample light. My true love likens the walk up and down the stairs to being in a Guggenheim Art Museum.  Though the only art I saw were several prints, including a Kucha,  hanging on the walls inside the apartment. Also plenty of full book cases. All in all, a very pleasant setting.  Italian-style. Give me more of it. And still another endearing feature. A fluffy blackish brown cat named Micia.  I was cautioned beware of cat.  But I wasn’t buying that stuff. I love cats. And I want ‘em to love me. So I got down on my knees and slowly crawled toward Micia.  Whispering soft, soothing English words.   It took me a good 15 minutes to forge close enough to reach out a sacrificial nimble finger. Micia hissed and bared her fangs and made a sweep with her clawed paw. But missed. And I tried peace offerings again and again. Bravely inching within a hair-breath’s distance  of her snout. Finally, she touched me. With a gentle sniff. But I was warned. Don’t press my luck. Wait until the next visit to give a loving caress or a loving two-finger squeeze to the scruff of her neck. Indeed, that will be my mission. Making bosom friends with a spitfire temperamental  Italian cat. –Jim Broede