Mama Gatta with her second round of kittens.
A Lesson in Italian
My cat is teaching me Italian. She’s still mainly focused on my language, but history lessons have also come to the surface by chance. More on the history lessons another day.
First, let me explain the Italian lessons. Truth be told, she is not my cat. I call her Mamma Gatta. I don’t believe it can be said that she belongs to anyone; the human who feeds and cares for her is my neighbor, Salvina. I didn’t know this when I first met the cat or when I met Salvina.
I learned it later when Salvina invited us for lunch, as Sicilians do, after we moved in.
Mamma G claimed me, perhaps as a loyal zia for every litter of gattino that arrives somewhere in my yard. I first noticed her when we purchased a small farm in Chiaramonte Gulfi’s olive-tree-filled countryside—our home is among a few farms comprised of hectares of table grape farms and olive trees. We are a tiny slice of a much larger agricultural world that surrounds us.
Mamma G came to my door and stared through the glass. I opened the door to greet her, but she hissed. I returned inside, grabbed some scraps, and stepped outside to feed her. She hissed again. After I left her alone, she eagerly devoured her meal before leaving.
This went on for a few days. About the third day, I stepped out. She danced crazy eights around my ankles, weaving in and out. I was thrilled. I reached down slowly to pat her. And she allowed me. I was ecstatic now. She looked up. And she hissed. I remarked to Danny how sad it was that she must have lost her ability to meow and purr.
Every morning, I’d enjoy my coffee while Mamma G would nudge against my leg. With a playful hiss at my greeting, “Buongiorno! E ora di mangiare.”
After a few days, I noticed she would dash off during her meal, often with a piece of cotta di prosciutto or salsiccia or two. She’d reappear about thirty minutes later to finish eating.
Farm kittens. A plentiful commodity in Sicily.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that she was sneaking off to feed some little gattinas. A week later, I was delighted when she brought them over the fence to make their home in the bamboo by our pozzo. Soon enough, Mamma allowed the three little gattini to visit me for meals. A fluffy gray minx kitten in the pack was the friendliest. I named him Grio.
When they were about ten weeks old, it was time for me to head back to the States. Danny stayed behind to continue working on our olive trees. During my absence, he discovered Grio inside the house, meowing for food. It was hard for Danny to resist that little guy with his adorable stub of a tail—there’s just something about a cat without a tail that makes him smile.
When we returned four months later, Mamma G was at the door by nightfall of our arrival. She hissed. I noticed this time she was a little plump. Another litter on the way. I fed her dinner and turned in for the night. A week passed with her joining us for a cafe each morning. She learned our schedule, joining for pranza and just past cena for any leftovers. After her meal, she cleaned up and climbed the carruba tree to the limb that reached over our fence. Drop down the wall to the road and make her way up the street.
Then she disappeared for a couple of days. She arrived back for breakfast one day and let out a meow. I was stunned. Danny laughed and said he had heard her several times, but went along with my sad storyline that she could not speak. Anyway, I noticed she was relatively svelte upon her return and wondered where the gattina might be. I watched her after the next two meals. By the third meal, she let me see where she was going as she slipped inside a couch we had abandoned outside while remodeling.
As fate would have it, a short time later, our neighbor Sergio appeared with his mother, Salvina. He explained in English that she would like to invite us for lunch. It was then that she saw Mamma G and spoke quickly to her son.
Sergio said, “Ah, you are where she comes to during the day. Do you know where her kittens are?”
“Si, i gattino lo sono,” I began. “How do you say inside the couch?”
“Dentro il divano” Sergio replied.
Little did I know, my Italian lessons would be kicked up a notch after this. Salvina, it turns out, is a great fan of my campagna gatta. She was quite pleased to know the kittens were safe. And we were both pleased to discover a new friend in each other.
Our lunch was wonderful, thanks to Sergio’s translation and Salvina’s Sicilian cooking. Her grasp of English was much better than my Italian pronunciation, so I stuck with English, and he translated what wasn’t completely understood. We talked about why we chose to be in Sicily, what we were still working on in the United States, and, of course, la gatta.
After lunch, the Gatto gang was in full force for leftovers, and I met many of Mamma G’s friends and offspring. Danny smiled when Grio appeared and came toward him. Mamma G obviously memorized Salvina’s dining schedule as well.
As we left, I stumbled out a simple “Piacere.”
Meanwhile, Danny, whose Italian is leaps ahead of mine, said he looked forward to reciprocating the invitation in a sparse but perfectly understood Italian. Everyone understands Danny’s Italian. At first, I attributed it to his volume and his constant gestures. Now, I have to admit he’s really getting good. I am quite envious.
Salvina stopped me just as we were leaving, “Ti piace la Zumba.”
I was pretty sure she was inviting me to a Zumba class. She was a pretty spry 75-year old and now I was even more impressed.
“Si!”
She smiled, “I pick you up. Martedi. Nove e mezza.”
“Si! Grazie!”
On the walk home I told Danny I thought I agreed to go to Zumba on Tuesday but what did “nove e mezza” mean?
“It’s nine-thirty in the morning.”
Perfetto.
Tuesday rolled around, and Mamma G joined us for breakfast. I thanked her for the introduction to Salvina and offered her some extra cream and salsiccia.
“Bravo Mamma,” I rubbed her head. “Sono le nove fifteen, time to head to Salvinas.”
Danny smiled. “Not exactly Italian, honey.”
Baby Steps. My lessons are just beginning. And a cat can only teach you so much Italian in a day.
