The Tyranny of Velvet Paws: My Encounter with the Cat Mafia of Agropoli
Late in the afternoon, my van rolled into Agropoli. Climbing an almost endless, steep staircase, I reached the picturesque old town, which clings like an impenetrable fortress around a medieval castle on the cliffs. From up here, the view was breathtaking: the sun was already low over the harbor, bathing the coastline in a magical, golden light.
Scouting for the ultimate sunset photo spot, I tracked down an empty park bench. However, it was already occupied by a rather plump cat, spread out in complete tranquility, leaving hardly a single centimeter for me.
“Dear cat,” I addressed the animal politely, “do you think there’s enough room next to you for me to enjoy the sunset?”
The cat blinked lazily at me: “Hardly. Can’t you see this seat is taken?”
“Oh, come on, we can easily both fit on here!” I persisted.
The cat flattened its ears and snorted suspiciously: “You’re not planning to chase me off or abuse me, are you?!”
“Not at all! I just wanted to sit down for a moment.”
The scaled creature—forgive me, the velvet paw—flicked the tip of its tail toward the alley in annoyance: “Can’t you read? Go over there and read up on it, if you’re not too dumb!”
Slightly irritated that Southern Italy’s fauna was suddenly bossing me around, I trotted off. And indeed: after just a few meters, I came across a highly official sign bearing a government seal. Cat Sanctuary. Chasing away or abusing cats is strictly prohibited under Article 11 (2001).
Looking around, the scales fell from my eyes: the old town was one giant, furry wellness resort! Cats were lounging on restaurant chairs, sprawling across tables, and dozing away. A few meters further, a cheeky pigeon was helping itself completely shamelessly to the food bowl of two half-asleep felines.
I returned to the bench. “Aha! So that’s how it is,” I said snidely. “Protected by municipal decree and grown lazy! Over there, pigeons are already stealing food right out of your bowls, and you don’t even lift a muscle.”
The cat opened one eye: “Why chase them off? We keep them as pets.”
“You keep them as pets?!” I replied, stunned.
“Yeah. You humans keep dogs, we keep pigeons. What’s your problem?”
“Well… why exactly do you do that?”
The cat sighed, annoyed: “Man! Because we can! Simple as that: because we can. Now let me go back to sleep, I’ve got a dream to finish.”
“Then at least tell me a nice legend or story about Agropoli!” I pleaded.
The reply came without hesitation, seasoned with deep contempt: “I couldn’t give a shit about this town’s legends. Now get lost—otherwise, I might spontaneously feel chased away or abused. And trust me: if I yowl loudly right now, you’re going to get into real trouble with the authorities!”
I realized I was fighting a losing battle against the legal framework and the local mafia kitty. I hastily snapped my sunset photo and trotted back down to my camper without a legend, but with a healthy respect for Article 11.
