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.)
