other bits of blog

Monday, February 15, 2010


I don't feel like talking today. Only writing. So here's the story you voted on...with a twist.

Memoirs of an Italian Calico
Bright Blue Eyes Only Happen Sometimes
September 4th

Everyone’s born with blue eyes—I think. Well, cats are, and that’s all that ever counts. And, anyway, I wasn’t. My mother, whom I call Madre, the word for mother in Italian, told me the story so many times:
“Vera, I remember the day you, Carmine, and Ciro were born, it was cold and windy. March 18th, right? It was raining so hard I thought Daniela’s roof would fall down. I was hidden in her closet, where I had been for days. She knew I was there, but didn’t want to disturb me. The first to come out was Carmine all tiger-like and sleek, and from the moment he was born, he was cooing like a songbird. That was what brought Daniela to the closet. Then came you, covered in long, calico fur, and you wouldn’t open your eyes. And last was Ciro. But Ciro was late, and big. He took a long time, but by the time he was free of me, and I was free of him, the storm had stopped, and the great flaming sun was rising. Daniela knew at once what your brothers’ names would be. Carmine, song, and Ciro, like the sun, but she didn’t know yours. Once you opened your eyes, though, then she was amazed. Your bright green eyes were astounding, and she knew that you weren’t hiding the truth, like most cats do when they are born; you gave it all away with those emerald eyes. So you were truth, Vera, truth.”
I’m not sure if the story is real, but my madre sure seemed fond of it. She wasn’t very fond of me, though. She was one for traditions, and she said I broke every rule.

Rule Breaker
September 9th

Madre said that I was impossible. She complained that my fur was always too ruffled, my eyes were too bright, and my meowing was too soft and sweet, she could never hear me. And she scolded me for having wet paws or bent whiskers. She never even looked at the faults of Carmine, her song, right. Carmine was loud, with sharp claws that were never retracted and a rough attitude. All he wanted to do was play with Marcéllo, or Marcé, our owner Daniela’s son. Marcé was twelve, and a rascal himself. He never washed his hands, bullied his younger sister, Azzura, who owned Ciro, and was rude to everybody.
Ciro was sweet and kind, but he was a brain, and proud of it. He and Azzura would curl up in her bed, reading books, hour upon hour. Sometimes I could hear Azzura reading aloud to Ciro. She was a strange and stuck-up child.

And I belong to Romeo.

September 13th

Romeo is a quiet boy. He has light brown hair that matches my own. And his eyes are bright green. We’re made for each other. Daniela let each of her three children have a kitten. Her own cat, Alba, or dawn, was Madre. Originally, Madre said that she had five kittens. I never met them, Daniela sold them to others.
Marcé got to choose first, he was sure he needed a tiger-striped and frisky Carmine. Even though Romeo was born before Azzura, and they were choosing by age, she insisted on choosing before him. Romeo, who at first glance wanted Ciro, was disappointed when Azzura chose the white-gold tabby.

So Romeo was left with the tiny calico, me. Actually, he was the one who named me Vera, after I opened my eyes. I wonder if Azzura was disappointed after she learned that Ciro was a boy, and I a girl, but “there were no trades”, as Daniela said.

I love Romeo. He’s not a show-off with his knowledge, but he really does know a lot. He spends most of his time with me, and I spend my time with him. I’ve taken to riding on his shoulder lately, especially because I love how Azzura and Marcé look when we walk in, me whispering in his ear.

Romeo can understand me. He seems to, anyway. The boy is a writer, and once when he was out of ideas, I meowed a phrase in his ear and he wrote the exact words I said. Every cat can understand Two-Leg, but only a special few humans can understand Feline. Romeo is one of those humans. Lately we’ve been having conversations, me meowing in his ear, which he understands, and him talking back to me, which I understand. We’ll stay up late in the night, when I’m curled in the crook of his neck, where we’ll compose songs together, or write stories.

September 17th

I come from Italy. Everyone I know is Italian, and me and my siblings’ names are Italian. There’s not a Feline Italian, Spanish, French, or anything such as that, but there are some differences in words, every cat knows them, though. Mainly the words are cat, love, human, mother, father, brother, sister, kind, whisker, and paw, but it varies with each dialect.
I’m not good at explaining things, Madre (see, the Italian word for mother) says that I’m not smart, but she says that about everyone, except Ciro and Azzura. So I don’t believe her, but I still think I’m not the best at explaining things, so I just hope you understand what I said.

I'm only going to say one thing: Méow, and yes, with the accent. Oh, and please, please, please, please, please comment.