Theo's Revenge at the Vittoriano

 Rome is my favorite city. It is filled with monuments, statues, fountains, gardens, parks, squares and rife with a history that precedes the gladiators in the Colosseum, the poets near the Spanish Steps, and the Vatican. There is so much to see as a visitor you sometimes miss the little details, the ornate and symbolic flourishes, that decorate the scenery. 

I am determined to bring Theo to see one of Rome's most famous monuments, nicknamed the Vittoriano, the symbolic center of Rome. It was built to honor Italy's first King--Victor Emmanuel II--who reigned after Italy was unified into a country. Unfortunately, his grandson, Victor Emmanuel III, who ruled Italy from 1900 until 1946 has a checkered reputation--responsible for bringing democratic reforms to Italy, but then later also responsible for empowering Mussolini to enter WWII. 

Nevertheless, the monument honors Italy's first King and does so much more. As a modern forum or public square, it contains stairways, columns, fountains, statues and views. It is seen as a kind of secular temple consecrated to Italy. It sits atop Capitoline Hill, near the ancient Roman Forum and Colosseum, and it is where most of the most important national celebrations in Italy today are held. 

"You must see the Vittoriano," everyone says. "The wedding cake." Because it looks like one.

I look at Theo. "We have to see the Vittoriano."

The gangster cat doesn't miss any chance to negotiate. "What's in it for me?"

"Snacks."

Theo clearly doesn't want to go. But the idea of snacks is a powerful draw. "For a little while," he concedes.

We arrive on foot after a delicious lunch. Dan is holding Theo because we've been walking so many steps, we're afraid the kid (with the short legs) will pass out. 

He's remarkably well behaved at first. He seems to be genuinely interested in what we're looking at. Of course, we're plying him with croccantini (dry cat food), Temptations (which we keep in small ziplock baggies) and Churos whenever we stop to admire something. 

Dan puts him down. The monument isn't crowded. Most visitors seem to be Italians who are milling about on their lunch hour. They gingerly step over or step to the side when they see Theo. No one bats an eye. 

This monument is a big place, and I have to admit, I'm overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. There are statues galore on top of the roof.

I angle in for a closer look.

 

 

I'm overwhelmed when--caught against the backdrop of the bluest of skies--an angel flies into view.

We are climbing up and down stairs and around corners, as we survey this monument. 

"Look, Theo." I'm pointing to a statue of a woman holding a spear. I have no idea who she is but she looks majestic.

At this point I don't know if Theo's looking or not, but I suspect not. Whenever I look down, he's eating a snack or licking a Churu. 

I hear in the distance Dan announce, "Well, that's it, buddy. We're all out of snacks." But I'm honestly not paying too much attention because another statue comes into view.

Then I hear what I never want to hear. Dan calling,"Theo, Theo."

I look around. Look down. The one thing you don't want to have happen is to lose a cat in the middle of Rome. A cat who doesn't speak a word of Italian. A cat who seems at this moment only motivated by snacks.  Snacks we don't have anymore. 

We have nothing to lure him out of wherever he is. 

"He can't have gone that far," I say to Dan, but I say it more for myself.

"He was here a minute a go," Dan agrees.

"Where would he go?" I ask aloud because Theo is not your usual cat. He doesn't wander off unless he's hungry. In fact . . . I turn to Dan with a sudden brainstorm. "He's probably stuffed himself with snacks and now . . ."

Dan takes the words out of my mouth. "He's taking a nap."

"But where?"

A larger than life statue sits about fifty yards in front of us. "You don't think . . ." I point to what would be the purrfect spot for an irritated cat to get away and do what he wants--sleep.

Dan rushes over. He's shaking his head and then motions me over. 

Theo has cozied up to the guy holding a cornucopia. There's a space right behind his leg. Cool marble. Out of the sun. Full belly.

Dan scoops him up.  "Come on, Theo."

"The next time . . . " I start to say. 

"Let him be. He made his point."

"Or took his revenge," I think. But with Theo you learn to reframe the situation. He could have run up the stairs. Or could have been scooped up by an unsuspecting Italian thinking he was a well-behaved cat. Or gone somewhere looking for a gelato.

"It's time to go home," Dan says.

Theo nods.

I agree. "But let's stop for some gelato first."