Is Theo a hero or a brat?

 Pasquale picks us up from the Rome Airport and takes us to our Hotel on probably the worst day of the year in Rome. The city is host to a marathon that literally runs past our hotel. Pasquale is tasked with outwitting the Marathon authorities so he can deliver us and our luggage as promised. Theo, who is with us, rests comfortably in a backpack, his head lolling around, his eyes closed. 

Pasquale, dressed professionally in nice Italian made slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt that is rolled up to his elbows, is in his early sixties. He knows Rome like the back of his hand. He speaks a little English and is visibly relieved when we ask him to talk to us in Italian because we want to practice.

This request unleashes a wealth of information. Suddenly Pasquale transforms from a reticent driver into a gregarious tour guide, pointing out the various sights we pass as we enter Rome proper and wind through the narrow and busy streets.

Pasquale pretends not to notice Theo, nestled between us. Our driver most likely assumes he is harmless. Theo doesn't growl or meow. I hold a Churos, a special treat for Theo, just in case.

Pasquale talks about his experiences as a driver, answers all our questions, but finally admits he's a dog lover. He's lived on a farm and doesn't see much use for cats . . . as pets. Theo understands English but his Italian is shaky. I hope Pasquale's comment has gone over his head. 

By some miracle, we arrive at Hotel Delle Nazioni, weaving in and out of streets that are temporarily closed and then reopened. We literally have seconds to disembark from the car. It is illegal to park where we have stopped. Pasquale is being a good driver. Dan is in charge of the luggage. I grab my backpack and reach for Theo.

Theo, resistant, backs away from me. He meows. His behavior is so unusual. So odd. For the most part Theo is becoming a veteran traveler. There is no time for questions. I literally pick him up by the scruff of his neck and pull him out of the car, the backpack swinging behind him. He is as surprised as I am that he's being "manhandled."

In the hotel lobby we sit on comfortable sofas, waiting for our rooms to be ready. I'm exhausted and don't have the strength to find out what Theo was thinking. Later, in our rooms, I'll unravel the mystery.

I reach for my iPhone, which should be wedged in the pocket of my pants. It's gone. Nowhere to be found. Everything is in that phone--our air itinerary, our tickets to the Colosseum, maps of the city. I feel physically sick. I know I had it when we met Pasquale. How will I ever track him down? I don't even have his last name.

At that very moment, before my panic overtakes my common sense, Pasquale reappears. He is holding out my phone. It must have fallen onto his car's backseat, then the floor. I jump up and hug Pasquale. I am so grateful. Then I collapse back onto the sofa, grasping my phone like a lifeline. Which it is.

It strikes me then as I glance at Theo's disappointed face. "Is that why you wouldn't get out of the car? Were you trying to tell me . . ." I hold out my phone.

Theo meows plaintively, pitifully--his usual maneuver when he knows he's won that round. Now he doesn't feel like talking. All he wants is a snack from his totally grateful mom. 

Is Theo a hero or a brat? I'll never know.

Theo Scavenges Cacio e Pepe

 If you land in Rome, the meal you must order and eat and then, like a miracle, become a fan is Cacio e Pepe. It is a simple dish: pasta, Pecorino Romano cheese (finely grated so that it can melt and becomes a smooth sauce), sprinkled with pepper, ground from peppercorns and sometimes toasted. Oh, did I mention there's a creamy sauce? It is delicious.

For our first dinner in Rome, we order the Cacio e Pepe and lasagna. (We are never on a diet in Italy.) We're not worried about Theo. 

In our hotel room, Theo has already eaten. In Italian--he has a scodella (bowl) filled with croccantini al gusto di pesce (a crunchy dried food, flavored with fish. In this case, Theo always prefers tuna. So, he is a well-fed cat. 

Our waiter is lovely. We desperately want to practice our Italian and, we discover, our waiter wants to practice his English. So, we have a curious conversation together. We speak Italian to him and he responds in English. It suits both our needs. 

Our table, practically in the middle of a crowded Italian side street is the perfect place to people watch. Thousands of tourists stream by, even though we purposefully choose a restaurant not near the Trevi Fountain where we're staying. Still, Rome is a big draw for tourists who are looking for good food and a jaunt through history, and the town is alive tonight.

Theo is amazingly well-behaved until he isn't. He ignores the chattering tourists and, I think he ignores our food. We literally gorge ourselves, enjoy every bite, totally unaware that Theo, who is resting under our table, is busy plotting his next move.

Dan jumps up from our table before we're finished eating to grab a photo of the restaurant. I go with him to supervise. (No, we're not very sophisticated. As we're sitting there, we can't believe we're actually here . . . in Rome . . . on a beautiful night . . . eating a delicious meal in a lovely restaurant.) A photo will cement the memory we can't even believe is being made. 

 Theo makes his move. Who knew that a tuna fish loving cat would go for Cacio e Pepe? But the creamy evidence is painted around his mouth.

"Theo!"

The wonderful thing about Italy and Rome is that anything goes. No one is surprised that Theo is on the table eating Cacio e Pepe. I see the woman next to us smile and shrug. Tourists who pass by glance over but they're too busy eating their gelato to look startled.

"No big deal," Dan says in Italian. "No harm done."

"Hai ragione," I respond like a wanna be Italian. (You are right.)

Theo retreats back to his spot under the table, uses his paw to clean his evidence-prone face, and doesn't even look guilty. Rather he looks self-satisfied, satiated. 

What happens in Rome must stay in Rome, I resolve. Well, almost. 

Theo and the Porker in Rome

 We fly into Rome and by good fortune book a room at a hotel one block from the famous Trevi Fountain. The Hotel Delle Nazioni is a "special place." The original structure, including the marble floors, date back to the 1500's. There is a full supermarket down the street--where you can buy yogurt, sandwiches to order, wine, cereal, fresh fruit and cat food at reasonable prices. Our six pack of water cost half a Euro (55 cents.)

We arrive hungry and decide to go out to lunch with Theo at the Cantina Dei Papi. It is quaint, cool inside with one quirky addition which we don't think too much about at the time. A giant pork body is suspended from the ceiling. Another pork body sits on the counter. It is their signature sandwich--porketta and . . . You fill in the blanks. It is an effective marketing tool.

Theo is appalled. He doesn't understand the ways of the world. His credo is simple--animals (all animals) should be treated with respect. That belief explains what happens next. 

Theo is lounging under our table one minute--seemingly affected by jet lag. We are tired, too. Then, with no warning, Theo crouches, leaps across the narrow aisle and aims for the poor porker hanging from the ceiling. He misses. 

The miracle is that Theo lands rather gracefully on the counter directly next to the other porker, but he's so astonished that he missed his target, that he fails to realize what is sitting right beside him.

 He is like the baseball player who faces a tough pitch in the 9th inning. All he has to do is hit the ball, run to first base, and bring his teammates home. He strikes out and then just stands there, paralyzed.

Eventually Theo slinks back under the table. The porker is free to hang there for another day, along with an assortment of other unmentionables that Theo seems oblivious to.

 I think that no one has noticed the leap--not the owner, not the guy who acts as a waiter, not the young girl who makes the sandwiches.

But I'm wrong. A worried owner arrives like magic at the table. Her English is shaky at best. She points to Theo and shakes her head. Her flurry of words--mostly Italian--state unequivocally that a cat has no place in her establishment.

Now, truth be told, Dan and I speak Italian quite well. But we have no explanation for why Theo tried to attack the pork. We have no good reason for why he is even here at all. Service cat? In Italy?

We do the only thing we can think of. We tilt our heads in unison and pretend we don't speak a word of Italian. 

The owner slams the bill on our table and marches away. This is not a good way to begin our lengthy trip in Italy.

"Theo, how could you?" I whisper.

He shrugs but continues to stare at the porker who is hanging there. 

"No, Theo. Control yourself. No excuses. Or it will be Mico who comes with us next time."

"Mico? That rascal? That scoundrel? Mom, you wouldn't."

All this outrage from a gangster cat who couldn't resist the allure of pork and . . . (you fill in the blanks.)

The Wonder of Giraffes

   Theo may not admit it, but he's a giraffe enthusiast. 

     He takes after me. The giraffe is the most wonderful of animals. They are elegant and gentle, smart and always eating. I think that the always eating or snacking appeals to Theo. When you see a giraffe saunter by, whether in a zoo or in the wild, they are chewing. This is based on their own peculiar digestive system which double digests all the food they consume. 

       Although cats differ from giraffes, they, too seem to be always eating or wanting to always eat. 

     Fast forward. I would love to report we're on safari in Kenya, in the bush on the lookout for giraffes (and I have been in that position), but we're only at the zoo. It's our good luck they house three giraffes. All female. All beautiful. All always eating.

     We move up close to the fenced-in-area where the giraffes live. They are outside, moving from the left side of their site to the right and we are both mesmerized. They float over the ground as they walk. 

      Theo wants to see everything. If he could, he'd jump out of my arms and sneak into their habitat, saunter beside them on the dusty ground. I can almost hear his cat thinking . . . I wonder what they smell like. If I could only sniff them. 

       "This is as close as we can get," I whisper. 

        Still he's making every effort to sniff what he can. The breezes that blow past must have some giraffe scent. 

         Because the giraffes are so popular, the zoo has instituted a chance to interact with the giraffes. For a few bucks, you can hold out a few branches with edible leaves (from the giraffe's point of view). The giraffes will begin eating the leaves practically out of your hand. The kids love it. Well, most of them do. (The ones that aren't scared out of their wits.)

         Giraffes have big heads or rather gigantic heads. When they lean down to eat, you can see how truly big they are. Their long black tongues extend out of their mouth as they grab onto and literally pull (they are amazingly strong animals for all their grace) the branch and suck up the leaves. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. 

          Theo looks longingly at the kids who are lined up. Each is holding a branch they will feed to the waiting giraffes. I watch the process closely. Kid extends arm with waiting branch, coached by mom or dad. Giraffe swoops down and grabs hold of the branch. Said giraffe yanks it--usually--out of the kid's hand while mom and dad hold onto junior for dear life. Someone is usually taking a video! 

          I can read Theo's mind.

          "Too dangerous."

           He pouts.

           "Just watch . . . when that giraffe grabs hold of the branch, he could lift you up into the air and then . . . smack down you fall onto the hard dirt."

            Not a pretty picture. And I'm not exaggerating. 

            But I feel sorry for Theo. He's restless and wants a bit of adventure. I imagine for a moment going up there--on the feeding platform--while holding Theo who grasps the branch in his mouth. The giraffe will swoop down . . .

            That's as far as I get. How will Theo react when the giraffe is hovering over him? How will the giraffe react when he smells Theo, who isn't quite human? Too risky. Too dangerous.

           But I relent. 

          The line of kids is long. It is sunny and hot. Theo is a little squirmy and a bit overwhelmed by the prospect. He wants to do it. He tells me he needs to do it. But then . . .

           We're the next ones in line. The kid in front of us is not a happy camper. As the giraffe swoops down, the kid panics and drops the branch. He cries. Out of fear or shame? A commotion ensues. 

           I look at Theo and he looks at me. "There's always another day," I say, quietly stepping out of line. We wait and watch the giraffes moving back and forth. Then we leave to get ice cream and magically both feel better.  

 

             

  

    

He's no Smokey the Bear

          Sometimes I'm amazed at how brave Theo can be. 

       Case in point: Quite by chance he catches sight of an old TV commercial warning against forest fires. Smokey the Bear is the hero, of course. Nice bear, Theo thinks. Who can do no harm. Who likes honey. 

       He gets an idea in his head--bears are kind, gentle, friendly creatures, like Teddy Bears.

       Fast forward. We are at our local zoo. Standing outside a large fenced in area (fenced-in for a reason) where a sloth bear lives.

       Sloth bears are big, brown, furry bears with big noses. They love a challenge. The zoo keepers will often hide their food at the very top of a man-made wooden structure, forcing Mr. Sloth Bear to climb up, sniff around, and figure out how to get to the food. Because he has uniquely designed long curved claws, he can easily climb and hang from trees. 

       Sloth bears can also forage on their own for food, of course. They can consume 40,000 insects in a single feeding by suctioning the insects into their mouth, creating a kind of funnel with their lips and tongue. Zoo keepers say that when they eat they sound like a vacuum cleaner and can be heard from 300 feet away. 

       Theo is in awe. If he could, he would climb into the bear habitat. Reach out and try to be friends. He learned that from Chucky. Always the ambassador.

       This is what he wants from me. To lift him over the fence and plop him down into enemy territory (my words.) So he can approach the bear because he believes that Mr. Sloth Bear IS Smokey the Bear. 

       By a pure coincidence, this sloth bear does look like Smokey. What are the chances of that? 

       "Theo, I would gladly help you. But . . ."

        "I have to do it, see?"

         My little gangster cat. I hate to ruin his day. I wish he could keep on believing that Smokey the Bear lives at our local zoo and just does TV spots to earn a little extra cash. That he's an employee of the Forest Service. A government employee. 

         There is no Santa Claus. Or Easter Bunny. Now, interestingly enough, there was a real bear who Smokey was based on, but that real bear lived a long time ago.

          "The truth is, Theo, he isn't Smokey the Bear. He's a look alike Smokey the Bear. And he's dangerous." I want to say-he could suck you up like those poor insects. He could claw you to death. In short . . . I pause. "Theo, he's a wild animal."

         Theo frowns. He doesn't care. If he could, he would make tiny muscles in his cat arms to show me how fearless he is.

         "He doesn't want to make friends."

         Theo wiggles a bit in my arms. He has a clean view of the sloth bear. We can hear grunting and snorting sounds. 

         "Right now he's foraging for food. Sniffing all around like you do. And he's with a friend."

         Sure enough, another sloth bear has suddenly appeared and they're foraging together.  

         "But he's fun to watch," I add. 

         We leave the habitat with things unresolved. "This is a cruel world. Everyone isn't your friend. Sometimes you have to live and let live. That's our new motto. Okay?" 

          Theo looks up at me. "Really?"

          In truth--it's tough raising a cat.