Cats sleep a lot.
They really sleep a lot.
More than dogs.
More than birds.
Why do they sleep so much?
Well, there’s a good reason.

NOAH’S CATS

By Lynn Schiffhorst

    It was a few days before the Great Flood. Noah had just finished the Ark, which sat on the ground like a barge. The barge was bigger than a house.  It had a wide door in the side, and Noah was watching his grandchildren guide the animals, two by two, over a ramp and through the doorway. 

    His granddaughter, Shifra, was on the right side of the ramp. When one of the horses froze and stopped walking, she climbed onto the ramp and stroked his mane. She walked backwards in front of him, smiling, until he followed her into the Ark.   

    Her brother, Joel, was on the left side. When a little guinea pig tumbled off the ramp, he was quick to pick her up and put her back beside her mate.

  Not far away, Noah was sitting on a crate and holding two cats on his lap. One was a gray and white male named Sammy, and the other was a golden girl called Briska.     

    The two little cats purred as his beard tickled their whiskers.

    “Sammy,” said Noah. “We have to agree about something.” He stroked Sammy under his chin. “Briska,” he went on. “Do you trust me?” Briska licked his hand.  “Good!” Noah exclaimed. “I see that we’re friends, and friends help each other.”

    Pointing to the Ark, he said, “That boat is now our home, and I am the captain of the boat. The captain has to make sure that everybody on board is well and happy.  Do you know what that means?”

    The two cats stood up on his lap and stared at him.

    Noah explained. “Tomorrow there will be two mice on board. They cannot be eaten.” He let that sink in. 

    Then he added, “Now I want you to look into the window on the top floor of the Ark. You see the birds flying around inside?” He raised his finger. “These cannot be touched. Not by tooth. Not by claw. I am putting you on your honor.”

    Sammy and Briska looked at each other. They spent their days crawling after mice through the undergrowth in the fields. They stalked birds in the high grass.  Why should they stop now?

    “To make it easier for you,” Noah said, “I have asked the Most High to grant you the gift of deep sleep. You will sleep for eighteen hours every day during the whole time of the voyage.  And every day when you wake up, you will have a delicious dinner, because I will ask my grandchildren to catch fish for you.”

    At the word “fish,” the cats began to purr. When Noah held out his hands, they rubbed their whiskers against his fingers. That was cat language for “OK, we agree.”

     After that, they jumped down from Noah’s lap and ran over to the animals going up the ramp. They got in line between the zebras and the antelopes. The female antelope was very motherly and stroked their backs with her tongue.

    Once Sammy and Briska were inside, they found a comfortable corner on a pile of hay that was right behind a cow. And in no time at all, they were sound asleep.

    Two days later the rain caused a flood high enough to float the Ark. Noah’s oldest son, the father of Shifra and Joel, brought the children some rods and showed them how to fish. They stood at a window, dropped their lines into the water and waited to get a bite. They stayed at their posts even when the rain blew in on them, because their grandfather had promised they would always get the cats’ dinner.    

     They only took a break to pet their beloved dogs, Benji and Zilla, who were stretched out on the floor beside them.

    As soon as they caught a fish, their mother showed them how to take out the bones so the little cats wouldn’t choke. When Sammy and Briska woke up, the children had the fish ready for them. It was so fresh and tasty, it put a smile in the cats’ tummies.

    After feeding the cats, Shifra and Joel ran through the Ark, playing all kinds of new games. It was fun to climb on the camels and pick each other up when they fell off. They played tag with the chimpanzees. They got the elephants to wrap their trunks around them and swing them back and forth. They made faces at the hyenas and hugged the woolly bodies of the sheep. And before they ate their own dinner, they took Benji and Zilla up to a place in the Ark where their grandfather had made a covered space, so the dogs could run around and stay dry.

     The next morning -- and every morning after that -- they fished for Sammy and Briska.  

      Protected by the broad back of a cow and fed by the faithful children, the little cats had wonderful dreams in their long naps. They didn’t miss their old lives at all. They were even able to sneak in a little milk to wash down their dinners.

    When the Ark landed on Mount Ararat, Sammy and Briska went to say goodbye to Noah. But they stopped to play with Shifra and Joel, so they were late getting to the door. 

     What did they see when they got there?

    They saw how busy Noah was! He was pushing the snakes from under the feet of the hippos. He was yelling at the giraffes, “Look where you’re going!” because he didn’t want them to bang their heads into the top of the doorway! And he was shouting, “Benji! Zilla! Get out of the way!” The dogs were running and barking in every direction, chasing the goats, chasing the gazelles, chasing the kangaroos. 

    Sammy and Briska decided not to bother Noah.

    They ran between the legs of the lions and dashed down the slopes of Mount Ararat. Soon they found a nice comfortable cave with a stream nearby where they could make their home and catch their own fish.   

     Noah stayed so busy that he never remembered to ask the Most High to take away the gift of deep sleep He had given the cats.

    That’s why all of the children of Sammy and Briska sleep for eighteen hours a day.    

    And they still have wonderful dreams! 

 Huge thanks to Aoife McCann for her stunning illustrations.           

It is a fact well-known to the feline community that the Carlyle Hotel, one of New York’s finest, offers an elegant cat café at Christmas time for all those cats lucky enough to be living on the ritzy Upper East Side.   In an alley behind the hotel, waiters set out porcelain platters of fresh tuna and salmon as well as bowls of the best-quality dry food.

A young gray cat named Rocky didn’t live in that neighborhood, but she was told about the café by her Aunt Vanessa, who shared the Park Avenue apartment of an elderly Russian lady.  Three days before Christmas, Rocky trotted into the alley, and while she was helping herself to salmon, Vanessa appeared at her side.  She wasn’t there to eat, because her diet was ample, but to tell Rocky about a situation that involved a lost cat.  She couldn’t do the searching herself, since Mrs. Oblonsky needed too much of her attention, but perhaps Rocky could?

With a series of head-and-tail moves, Vanessa let Rocky know that there was a homeless man living at the church of St. Jean the Baptist who had lost his feline companion.  The church, which was only a few blocks away on Lexington Avenue, had a broad porch, and people surviving on the street often made their homes there.  The man she was worried about, a middle-aged man named Tom, was a cheerful soul, friendly to everybody, but he wasn’t quite the same since his beloved cat disappeared.

With a few swipes of her whiskers, Rocky let her aunt know that she was on the job.  After a few bites of tuna, washed down by water from a crystal bowl, she said goodbye to her aunt and trotted over to Lexington Avenue.  At the top of the steps and just inside the porch, a man was sitting on a pile of newspapers, watching the traffic go by.  As soon as he saw Rocky, he held out his fingers so she could sniff them, as he said, “Well, hello, sweetheart.  Boy, am I glad to see you.”

As Rocky dashed to his side, sure that a man so sensitive to feline etiquette could only be Tom, he let her sniff to her heart’s content and then stroked her back.   “I used to have a cat of my own,” he told her.  “Leastways, he adopted me a couple of months ago when I first started coming to this church. He was a black cat with a white face and two little black marks like a paintbrush moustache under his nose. 

“It was the same kind of moustache you see on Japanese men, so I called him the Japanese Gentleman.  I couldn’t pet him like you.  He liked to keep his distance, but only in a dignified way.  Very Japanese.   We’d share some shrimp, whenever I got me some shrimp tempura, which I do when my check comes in.  We was friends.”  Tom sighed.  “I wish I knew if he was all right.  I miss the Gentleman!”

Rocky stroked his wrist with her paw.  She was telling him, “Trust me.”  Before she darted back down the steps, she turned to give him a reassuring look.  Then she headed off to the Italian deli down the street, where two tabbies, Gusto and Brio, lived.  They would be most likely to know about everything feline in the neighborhood, and as Rocky knew, nothing beats local knowledge.

The front of the deli was wide open, and shoppers were hurrying out, laden with parcels.  Rocky dodged between them and the poinsettias for sale that were artistically arranged on a two-tier stand.  She paused to avoid a woman with stiletto heels who was coming toward her, but as soon as the coast was clear, she started through the doorway.  Then she backed up.

Across the threshold two tabbies came racing.  Seeing Rocky, they jumped on their brakes, laid back their ears and snarled.  They flung at her the kind of yowl that is meant to paralyze the enemy, so they could move in for the kill. 

Realizing she was outnumbered, Rocky decided to fall back on a trick her mother had taught her.  She lowered her head, crouched down until her belly touched the ground, and gulped for breath like a cat having a heart attack. 

 This pathetic pose encouraged Gusto and Brio to ramp up their arrogance.  Claws extended, the bullies lunged forward.  They intended to land smack on top of her, but to their surprise, Rocky wasn’t where they thought she would be.  She was lunging at them! 

GROWOWOWRRRRCH!  She fired a yowl like a bullet, and it exploded like a rocket that shattered the sunlight.  Getting the full impact, the two tabbies shot straight up in the air.  Not waiting to see what else she could do, they turned tail and streaked off across the street.

As customers who had been discouraged from coming in during this drama surged forward, Rocky headed off in a leisurely way down Lexington.  The attack had shaken loose a piece of information she had forgotten.  The church just below St. Jean’s was St. Vincent Ferrer, and it  was famous for making space in its chapels for any animals who didn’t have a home in cold weather.   It was just possible the Japanese Gentleman had taken refuge there.

With no possibility of a nap now, Rocky was beginning to feel irritated.  But the traffic was light, and she got to 66^th St. in about ten minutes.  Climbing up the steps of St. Vincent’s, she slipped through a flap in the front door and followed a big yellow dog with a chewed ear into the nave, where a sign said, “DOGmatics to the right, and CATechetics to the left.”

Rocky could see that the dog was the kind of mutt that cats call a “Heinz,” meaning he has 57 canine varieties in his DNA.  Heinz, in his hurry to get settled, stepped on Rocky’s paw, but she could tell from the droop of his tail that he was too down and out to notice.  Crossing right in front of the little cat, he jogged over to the Holy Name chapel on the right.  The chapel was well lit and the wrought iron gates had been left open.  Heinz found the bowl of water that had been placed underneath the rack of candles. 

Slurp, slurp, slurp. . . .  Listening to him filling up after a dry day, Rocky said a little prayer that Heinz would be adopted.  She could see that he was a dog who was really only half a dog without a human.

Peering into the next chapel, Rocky saw a double row of cat baskets set out on a blue carpet.  On the other side were a dozen litter boxes positioned on thick white paper.   And under the stained glass windows were food and water bowls, not as elegant as the Carlyle’s, but very serviceable.

Going over to the first inhabited basket, Rocky stood up on her hind legs and took a careful sniff.   The sleeper, who had been twitching nervously, woke up, and lifted his black and white head with its paint brush moustache.  It was the Japanese Gentleman!

In a few low mews, Rocky told him how Tom missed him and wondered why he didn’t come around anymore.  In even lower mews, the Gentleman explained he was afraid to.  He said no more, but Rocky suddenly got it!  He was afraid of Gusto and Brio.  When she said their names, the Gentleman visibly shivered.  It was obvious that to him those two were terrorist tabbies. 

With a quiet fierceness in her mew, Rocky let him know that she would be his ally from now on.  She would even teach him all the skills he needed –paw swipes, footwork, yowls and hisses – to be able to knock those cowards right on their tails.  After all, nothing should be allowed to separate him from Tom, who loved him dearly.

Rocky could see he wasn’t completely convinced, but he was definitely heartened.  She would have to work on him a little more, and maybe, if she had a nap, a long one, in that very comfortable basket next to the Gentleman’s. . . she could start his lessons this evening.

Climbing into the basket, which was made of beautifully woven wicker and lined with heavy flannel, Rocky felt an enormous yawn come over her.  But before she fell asleep, a picture of Heinz flashed across her mind.  Maybe Tom could take him too.  That might be a better solution than training the Gentleman to fight, since he looked like a born scaredy-cat.    But how could she get the dog to follow her up to St. Jean’s?  Could her Aunt Vanessa think of a way? 

Suddenly, all the confidence her mother had instilled her from kittenhood came flooding into her heart.  Of course, she could do it, if she could just find the trick. And then she realized just what it was that might work.  But she would have to practice first.  Grateful that almost no one was around to hear her, she made a soft, gruff sound.  “Woof,” she coughed.  Then again but more audibly, “WOOF.”  She made half a dozen more woofs until she produced one that sounded like the real thing. 

Now, she could fall peacefully asleep, knowing Heinz would follow her up to St. Jean’s with no question.  After all, what dog will say no to a cat who can bark?   

Lynn Schiffhorst

MERRY CHRISTMAS, LAURICETTE

By Lynn Schiffhorst

Who was Lauricette?  On the outside, she was a Russian blue cat with the classic broad face, plushy fur, and the peaceful disposition of Russian blues around the world.  But on the inside, she was something more.  She was a cat with a religious vocation.

    Lauricette first came to public attention in 1960, when the Daughters of Charity in Paris still wore their traditional habits.  They hastened to their ministries in gowns  long enough to dust the floors of their ancient corridors, if there had been any dust, which of course there wasn’t, because cleanliness was next to godliness.  On their heads was a white cornette.  This cap with its starched wings, which looked as though the Sydney Opera House had landed on their heads, was not easy to care for, but it had the virtue of making the Sisters immediately identifiable anywhere they were in the world, and who among us doesn’t want to be distinguished? 

     Now the cornette doesn’t really matter to this story, but I’m telling you about it because I want you to picture the main character as she really looked.   And the main character was Sister Marguerite.  Of course, in her opinion, the main character was Lauricette.

    Sr. Marguerite had charge of one wing of the nursing home that was quartered in the motherhouse of the Daughters of Charity.  She had the most difficult assignment of all the nurses, because her patients were far gone in dementia.  They could not understand anything said to them, and they could not give any help in their own feeding, washing and dressing. But hardest of all, and this tore at Sr. Marguerite’s tender heart, they wept and screamed from pain or grief or anger in ways they could not explain, and Sr. Marguerite could do nothing about.

     Fortunately, she had some help during the daytime.  Her nurse’s aide was a young woman called Elodie.  Elodie wanted to be a Daughter of Charity, although her vocation had an immovable obstacle in the shape of a husband, who wanted his wife home every night putting dinner on the table.  But she was so devoted to religious life that she behaved more like a novice than many of the real novices did.  If she looked away from a patient who needed her help, Sr. Marguerite had only to say, “Custody of the eyes, Elodie!”  And Elodie would refocus her attention and behave as if the distraction were not there.     

     After twelve years of carrying this responsibility, night and day, with only Elodie’s help, Sister Marguerite might have gone out of her own mind.  She might even have ripped the cornette off her head, thrown it on the floor and stamped on it, if she hadn’t – on All Saints Day – gotten help from a most unexpected quarter.

    The help was Lauricette.  Lauricette had appeared without any warning from underneath a radiator by the bed of poor Rosalie Dubois, who sobbed herself to sleep every night like a hurt child.  Coming back from dinner, Sister Marguerite was startled by the sight of a dark gray cat suddenly jumping on Rosalie’s pillow and stretching out beside the old woman’s crippled body.  For a moment, the Sister wondered if she were seeing things or if some prankster had slipped something into her wine. 

    And yet there was Rosalie cuddling a purring cat in her arms and, for the first time, Sr. Marguerite could remember, she was not sobbing.  She was not even whimpering.  And as soon as she was sound asleep, the cat gracefully extracted herself from the woman’s grasp and stood up, looking directly at Sr. Marguerite, who spontaneously held out her arms.  In a moment, they were filled to overflowing with a warm bundle of fur.  Happy as she hadn’t been in years, the sister said, “I don’t know where you came from, Sweet One, but I hope you plan to stay for a while.”

    The next morning all the Sisters gathered as usual for prayers in the chapel. As she recited the psalms, Sr. Marguerite’s heart was overflowing with gratitude.  Giving up her beloved cat, the original Lauricette, was one of the biggest sacrifices she had had to make when she entered the order.   Now God had given her another one to cherish.

    Of course, her presence would have to be kept a secret, because it offended against the unwritten law of the convent, “Thou shalt have no pets of thy own.” Breaking an unwritten law was almost always a mortal sin.

    Respecting the need for secrecy made feeding Lauricette the first big problem, until Sr. Marguerite reminded herself that it was not for nothing she had been in the French Resistance and catered successfully for half a dozen people in hiding.  Now, as before, she just needed a network of suppliers and transporters.

    Taking off her cornette – metaphorically speaking – and putting on her Resistance cap, she realized that she already had a network right at the convent.  The porter who brought up the meals for the patients was the grandson of her old neighbour, who had a great regard for animals, cats in particular. He would make no bones about supplying his grandson with cans of cat food every week that the young man could smuggle onto one of the patient’s trays. The same porter could also help her set up a litter box in a corner of the little lavatory on the ward that was used only by herself and Elodie.   

    So from that day on, when the four-legged nurse took up her duties, the little miracles began, starting with the patients in the worse condition.  Solange Legras no longer rubbed her thumb raw every week once she began to pet Lauricette.  Marie-Claire Davy gave up throwing her plates on the floor in a transport of rage after Lauricette snuggled next to her at mealtimes.  And Henriette Pellerin’s face, which had frozen into a grimace years ago, relaxed into a normal countenance after Lauricette licked her neck with a little pink tongue.

    Lauricette even mastered the art of trotting underneath Sr. Marguerite’s skirts and keeping her pace even with the Sister’s.  It was not possible to keep her out of Elodie’s sight, but fortunately with her, all Sr. Marguerite had to say was, “Custody of the eyes, Elodie,” and the woman would shift her gaze away.

    All went well until Christmas Eve, when Sr. Marguerite was leaving the pharmacy and then suddenly turned back again because she had forgotten a new medication for Solange.  Unprepared for the U-turn, Lauricette was thrown off her stride just as Mother Catherine, the superior of the convent, came out of her room into the same corridor. 

    Mother Catherine blinked.  Were her eyes developing very bad floaters as the oculist warned her they might?  Or was that a tail under Sr. Marguerite’s skirt?  She decided that yes, it was a tail.  So Sr. Marguerite was called on the carpet.

    Five minutes later, Sr. Marguerite, holding the Mortal Sin, was in the superior’s office and on her knees in her heart.  “Her name is Lauricette, Mother, and she’s a miracle. For almost two months, she has saved patients’ lives by warning me that a doctor’s intervention was needed.  She has also let me know that a woman who was not sleeping but dying needed the last sacraments.”

     Fortunately, Mother Catherine was a secret cat-worshipper.  Thoughtfully considering Lauricette, the superior said, “I suppose we could say that she has vowed herself to our ministry.”

    “Yes, we could, Mother,” responded Sr. Marguerite, who was reassured by that “we.”  “In her own way, she is a Daughter of Charity.”

   The two of them looked at Lauricette, who looked back with confidence and modesty.  For a moment, Sister Marguerite could actually picture a cornette topping the furry little gray head.   But could Mother Catherine see it?  Nervously she waited for the superior to make an objection.

   “Will she let me pet her?”  asked Mother Catherine, as Russian blue paws were already padding across her desk for just that purpose. 

     After the shortest “called-on-the-carpet” session in convent history, Sr. Marguerite carried the newest member of the order back in triumph to the ward, where Elodie was waiting breathlessly for the outcome. 

     “I can see her now officially?” she asked.  

    “She’s officially here,” declared Sr. Marguerite proudly, “and now everybody can see her.”

    Reaching into her pocket, Elodie took out two shrimp and fed them to the newest member of the staff.   “Merry Christmas, Lauricette,” she said. “And bon appetit!” 

     After making its way through heavy traffic, a blue Alfa Romeo glided into a no-parking zone right in the center of Milan, between the cathedral and the Galleria, one of Italy's largest malls.  An army of Christmas shoppers, mostly women, were out in full force, taking advantage of a day in December when it wasn't snowing or blowing. 

     The press of the crowd was so great that for a few moments Father Risolino could hardly open the car door.  Finally, he got himself out and called to the driver, "Grazie, Roberto!  I appreciate the lift."

     Pulling away from the curb, the driver shouted, "You wouldn't have gotten here in that old rust bucket of yours.  I'll pick you back up at four, Reverendo."

      The priest had barely stepped onto the sidewalk when a fourteen-year-old girl, her Catholic school beret slipping off her red hair, burst out of the crowd, calling, "Zio nonno, zio nonno!"  Several passersby turned their heads after hearing such an odd expression as "Uncle Grandpa," but   Father Risolino, her mother's uncle, was the only family member she knew in a grandfather's generation.    

     After she had given her "uncle grandpa" half a dozen kisses, she asked, "Do you want to say a prayer in the cathedral before lunch?"

     Father Risolino shook his head.  "No, in the interests of time, we're going to straight to the Galleria, eat something, and practice one of the corporal or spiritual works of mercy.  It will be our Christmas gift to the world!"     

     "Oh, I know the works of mercy," said Eleonora, bubbling with enthusiasm.  As they were carried by the crowd toward the mall, she rattled off, "Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, cloth the naked, visit the sick. . ." and then she stopped.  "Is that a cat?" she asked, bending down.

     Father Risolino was about to say, "Not in this mob," when the crowd parted briefly and he too saw a streak of bright orange fur flash right past the security guard who was standing inside the entrance.   But as soon as they had squeezed through the doors, almost knocking a pine cone off one of the decorative wreaths, the priest, who could never stay away from a cat, told Eleonora, "You look down this side of the mall, and I'll search that one."    

     Before they could set out, however, Eleonora's young eyes spotted a skinny middle-aged man in a dark suit kneeling on one knee and holding out a large bag, like a woman's tote bag.  The next instant, she saw an orange-colored mackerel tabby jump into it and disappear.  "I found him," she cried.  "He's over there -- the man in black is holding him."

     As the man noticed Eleonora and the priest coming toward him, he shrank back against the window of a clothing store, put his finger to his lips, then pointed to the security guard.  He was reminding them that no animals were allowed in the Galleria.

     Understanding his predicament, Father Risolino positioned himself so that his broad shoulders blocked the guard's view.  At the same moment, he took in the threadbare nature of the man's suit and the absence of an overcoat.   "My son," he said, "we are very interested in getting acquainted with the little family member you have in your bag.  Would you like to join us at the café over there for some lunch and an introduction?"

      "Si, si, grazie," the man said.  He gave Father Risolino a smile that brightened his worn face.  "It will be our pleasure, Reverendo, signorina."  He pressed the top of the tote bag lightly against his chest so that no orange ears could stick out and attract attention.  There was a curious little mew from inside the bag, but that subsided quickly.  The bag's inhabitant was used to making himself not only invisible but inaudible.

      When they had seated themselves at one of the outside tables, the one farthest removed from the foot traffic, Eleonora said, "I'm Eleonora, and this is Father Risolino, my zio nonno, Mama's uncle."

     Keeping his bag carefully wedged between himself and the table, the man shook hands.  He looked at them out of dark, deep set eyes, where sadness mingled with pride.  "I am Dappertutto," he told them.

     Eleonora looked puzzled.  "Dappertutto" is the Italian word that means "everywhere."

     Seeing her confusion, Dappertutto threw out his arms and proclaimed ringingly, "That's because I belong to the whole world!  I come and go as I wish and nothing stops me."

      The priest interpreted what he heard realistically and grimly -- the man was living on the street.  But Eleonora's natural buoyancy and willingness to chime in with other people's beliefs inspired her to say, "You're like God!  He's everywhere too."

     "Did you hear that, Frankie?" asked the man, looking down into the bag.  "Did you hear what the signorina said?"  Sitting back in his chair, he let the top of the bag open slightly, and an inquisitive head popped out.

     Seeing friendliness on the little tabby face, Father Risolino reached over, lifted Frankie up and out of the bag, and swiftly put him on his own lap below the level of the table, where he could not be noticed by passersby.  With his thumb, he tickled the furry chin until a warm sound of purring rose.

    Catching a glimpse inside the bag, Eleonora saw a pile of soft wool cloths in the center, making Frankie's home warm and comfortable and cozy.  "You're a good daddy to your little boy," she told Dappertutto.  

     She would have said more, but suddenly, a waiter appeared.  He had a stiff demeanor that made him look slightly negative, like the kind of person who would be anti-feline, anti-canine, anti-anything that wasn't protocol.  But appearances were apparently deceiving.  Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the priest's face, he asked, "What can I get for you and your party, Reverendo?"  

    After he wrote down Father Risolino's order of beef stew for three, he continued, without a flicker of a smile, "Would you like a contorno" -- a side order -- "of tuna to accompany your stew?"

     "Si, si, grazie," exclaimed Dappertutto.  In an instant, his back, slightly bent, had straightened itself up.  A thrill of joy was running through his whole body at the prospect of his son Frankie getting such a treat.  

     As they were waiting for their orders to appear, Eleonora asked, rubbing the cat's velvety ears, "Where did Frankie get his name?"     

     Dappertutto grinned.  He waved his hand in the air and said, "Listen to the music."  The song -- "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" -- was in English, so Eleonora couldn't understand the words, but she recognized the voice of Frank Sinatra.  "He's loved everywhere, just like my little boy!"

     "Well," said Father Risolino, as one soft paw after another climbed up his chest and a pink tongue began to lick his neck, "you may not have your namesake's blue eyes, but you certainly have his charm."  Before he could express any more compliments, he heard the waiter say to someone sitting behind his back, "Your café and tiramisu, dottoressa." 

      At the word dottoressa, which means "doctor," Father Risolino and Eleonora turned around.  They saw a very small woman who was sitting at the next table, looking like the spirit of Christmas.  The coat flung over her chair was bright red.  She wore a green sweater, a red-and-white stocking cap on her head, and earrings shaped like tiny candy canes.  After taking a sip of her coffee, she stood up and said to the priest, "May I hold your little darling, Reverendo?"

     Hesitating only long enough to look around for Authority, which was nowhere in sight, Father Risolino said, "He belongs to this gentleman.  But I don't think either of them will mind."

     As Frankie transferred himself into the arms of the little lady and curled up against her chest, Dappertutto rose and said courteously, "Our pleasure, Signora."   But before he could sit back down, his face contorted in pain.  His hand went to his pocket, then fell to his side, and he slumped into his chair.

     Father Risolino leaped over to him and took the man's head in his hands.  He said, "My son, we are here.  Stay with us."  Gently but insistently, he repeated, "Stay with us."

     There was no response.

     Handing Frankie quickly to Eleonora, and taking her cell phone off the table, the little lady said, "I'm dialing 118," which was the Italian number for medical emergencies, "but I'll look after him until the paramedics come.  I'm a cardiologist."  

     After she had told the dispatcher where the patient was and what had happened, she rummaged through Dappertutto's pockets, pulling out a tube of aspirin.  "I'll bet a doctor told him he has angina and that he should chew one of these when he feels an attack coming on. But today the attack was too fast."  Looking down at the man's careworn face and clothes, she added sympathetically, "It could be a lot of other things as well, of course."

     She asked Father Risolino, "Do you know his name?"

     Under the cloths in the bag that was Frankie's home were papers that looked like official documents.  Emptying them out on the table, the priest sorted through them.  "He's called Giovanni Preli," he told the doctor.

     Out of curiosity, Eleonora set Frankie down on the table so she could could pick up one of the papers and read it for herself.  Just at that moment, two shoppers who had witnessed the man's collapse came rushing over to offer advice.  One woman ordered, "Sit him up so he can breathe," while the other said, "Don't be ridiculous.  Stretch him out on the floor so he can rest."

     The dueling voices were irritable and demanding.  Spooked by them, Frankie leaped off the table and dashed across the corridor.  Seeing him head toward a men's clothing store, Eleonora took off after him.

     She was barely inside when she saw a ball of orange fur quivering in a corner behind a counter.   "Scusi," she said to a man who was scrutinizing several ties the salesman had set out for his perusal.   "Scusi," she repeated more intently, since the customer, who was blocking the space between the counters showed no inclination to move.   Taking direct action, Eleonora wedged herself past him, then stooped down to grab Frankie.

     But the little tabby had other ideas.  Jumping over her shoes, he aimed for the door, which unfortunately opened just as he got there.  In only a second, Frankie was once again loose in the uncharted spaces of the mall. 

     Once Eleonora got outside, she begged an elderly couple going past, "Did you see a little cat?  Which way did he go?"

     The husband pointed with his cane toward a luggage shop. 

     "There he is," cried Father Risolino, who had come to join the chase, and the two of them set off in pursuit.

     Right outside the shop, a heavy-set man was standing next to a tall leather trunk on wheels.  Tucking a receipt into his wallet, he paid no attention to an orange tail that was twitching in agitation behind the trunk.      

     Creeping up on the tail like an experienced trapper, Father Risolino waited until he had his hands on Frankie before he called to Eleonora, "I've got him."  Underestimating the tabby's willpower, however, he allowed his grasp to be too gentle.      

     With one determined flex of his muscles, Frankie exploded out of his grip and shot off down the corridor.

     The heavy-set man laughed.  He called after Father Risolino, "Don't say 'cat,' until it's in the bag."   He was using the Italian expression that means, "Don't count your chickens until they're hatched." 

     Although Eleonora and the priest put on their best speed, they lacked the smallness and flexibility of Frankie, who could zigzag swiftly over the ground.  Their progress was continually blocked by excited children chasing each other through the mall or by women carrying shopping bags the size of small ponies. 

     Despairing of being able to find Frankie by looking over and around people, Eleonora hurried toward the window of a bookstore.  She dropped down close to the floor and peered through a moving army of ankles.  Much to her relief, she spotted Frankie heading back toward the café where Dappertutto was resting with his head on the shoulder of the little doctor.

     "This way," she called to Father Risolino.  She was praying that the paramedics would not arrive at the same moment as the little cat.  He could be alarmed by the bustle and once again head out on his own.

     Fortunately, all was quiet.  The two interfering shoppers had lost interest and disappeared, and the other diners had left the doctor and her patient a clear space of calm.  Frankie, however, in cautious cat fashion, had put on the brakes outside the area of the tables.  He sat and he stared, but he went no closer.   Consequently, Father Risolino and Eleonora also froze a few yards away from Frankie.

     There was no telling how long this stand-off might have continued.  But the little doctor found the perfect solution.  Reaching over to a small plate, she picked up some tuna with her fingers, and, without disturbing her patient, she held out her hand toward Frankie.  The extended fingers were the invitation every cat recognizes.  It says, "Draw closer, sniff, and lick." 

     Immediately, Frankie trotted over to the table.  At the same time, two other developments occurred.  Dappertutto opened his eyes and sat up, and the paramedics arrived.  A bearded man who led the team called over his shoulder to the others, "Hey, we can go home now.  The world-famous cardiologist is here!"

     "Oh, no, you don't," the little doctor joked back.  "I'm just here for the tiramisu."  She stepped out of the way, after saying, "His name is Giovanni Preli."

     As soon as the patient's vital signs had been checked, the bearded man said, "Don't worry, Signor Preli.  I can see you're feeling stronger, but we're taking you to the hospital to get you stabilized and give you a more thorough examination."

     At the word "hospital," a worried look came over the face of Frankie's father.  Understanding perfectly, Father Risolino said, "Frankie can stay with me until the hospital discharges you.  Then you too can come and honor me with a long visit.  I live in the village of St. Agatha's, which is in the mountains a few hours from here, where the fresh air will do you good."

     "I live right here in Milan," piped up Eleonora, "so I can visit you every day after school."   

     "Are you taking him to the Policlinico?" the little doctor asked the bearded man.  When he nodded, she told Dappertutto, "I have patients there myself, so I can check on you and arrange for you to get up to Frankie when the time comes."

      As the paramedics prepared to take their patient away, the priest leaned over and pressed his hand.  "Don't worry," he said.  "All will be well."  But the last lingering look the man gave, as the team rolled him off on a gurney, was at Frankie, nestled against Father Risolino's chest.  

    Taking Eleonora's arm, the little doctor motioned her to sit down and said, "Now it's time for you both to have some lunch, Reverendo, or I'll have two more patients collapsing." 

     Shifting Frankie in his arms so he could see his watch, Father Risolino said, "Fine!  I have two hours before my ride arrives."

     Dropping happily into her seat, Eleonora called to the waiter, "Could we have some more stew, please?  And another contorno of tuna?"  Thinking of the trip the little cat had ahead of him, she stroked his face and asked, "Maybe you'd rather have a regular-sized plate, Frankie?" 

     "Would you like that better, Signor Sinatra?" joked the priest, who was enjoying the pleasures of cuddling a warm bundle of tabby. 

      Signor Sinatra purred his loudest purr, which meant, "Si, si, grazie!"   

by Lynn Schiffhorst

Huge thanks to Jem Vanston for trawling the Internet for illustrations - thanks Jem!