Three Cats, One Mountain
We have three rescue cats. People ask me what that’s like, and I never know how to answer. It’s like running a small, chaotic republic where the government is feline, the laws change daily, Jane handles Interior Affairs (litter logistics, vet diplomacy, treaty negotiations), and I am merely the Minister of Food Distribution.
They arrived in our lives the way most good things do: by accident. The rescue centre in Trento had a habit of calling us whenever they had a cat that was too weird, too broken, or too arrogant for anyone else. We never stood a chance.
Larry arrived from the rescue centre at a couple of months old, and it was immediately clear he was different. He struts about the house like he’s on a Milan catwalk. He arranges himself when lying down, paws placed just so, head tilted, as if posing for a photo shoot. He will trade his dignity, three hours of sleep, and possibly a dead moth for a solid chin scratch, and starts purring the moment you make eye contact. But he also claims objects. A tea towel, a folded jumper, a packet of popcorn. It becomes his. And if a shelf item does not meet his aesthetic standards, he will calmly push it off the edge.
He is also either the bravest or the stupidest cat we have. A loud motorbike backfiring up the valley road will send Tippy and Jasper bolting for the bedroom. Larry stands, sighs as if the noise has personally offended him, and walks toward the patio to file a formal complaint.
Tippy came next. He was found living in a barn, half-feral and fully suspicious of humans. A tiny outlaw with serious trust issues. When we brought him home, he glared at us for three weeks. Things improved marginally after that. He still patrols the house like he’s running a protection racket on sunbeams, the good armchair, and anyone who looks at Jane the wrong way. He adores her with an intensity he does not extend to me. I am tolerated. At best. He once launched himself off our second-floor balcony, broke a leg, and cost us €800 for a titanium plate. He now walks with a wonky gait and eyes the birds from behind the patio fence with quiet resentment. He is dreaming of revenge. I do not blame him.
Jasper arrived as a tiny kitten and immediately vanished behind a storage box for three days. He would creep out when no one was around to eat, then bolt back into hiding. We first tried introducing him to Larry as we were nervous about how Tippy might react. Larry was hopeless, he just stared at Jasper for a minute and decided interacting with him would be beneath his dignity and walked off. Then we tried Tippy. Turns out we needn’t have worried. The moment Jasper saw him, he walked right out. Tippy casually played with him as if to say, “Alright, you can stay.” From then on, they were inseparable.
Jasper kept growing. And growing. He is now roughly the size of a small tractor. The Seek app on my phone has identified him as a Domestic Dog five or six times. He is the most athletic of the three, leaping onto furniture with ninja-like grace, but when he jumps down, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of potatoes. His tail is always bolt upright, a feline flag of satisfaction. His signature move is reversing onto whichever cat is in his spot and sitting on them. He sits there, purring, completely unaware that he has just colonised another living creature.
If Tippy runs security and Jasper handles heavy lifting, Larry is clearly in charge of public relations.
They are a strange trio. An ex-con, a gentle giant, and a prima donna. When the Dolomites disappear behind low cloud, they stack themselves into a single sunlit rug like a feline totem pole. They sleep together, they tolerate me filling their bowls, and they have, in their own chaotic way, rescued us right back. I call that a fair exchange.
I remain, gratefully, the Minister of Food Distribution.