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…