The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue (20 page)

I
have begun to dread the beginning of the summer season as I know it will generate a flood of emails from anguished tourists who have gone online and found Catsnip. They speak of holidays in various parts of the island that have been disrupted by an encounter with a small cat. What started out as blue skies and sunshine becomes overshadowed by distress and anxiety. It takes me back to my fateful trip in 2002 when Andrew and I stumbled upon Lizzie, setting in motion the chain of events that led to my forming Catsnip. I understand only too well their concern and longing to help in some way. I’d been lucky in finding a friendly vet but then I spoke Italian; apart from the larger towns and cities, it is often difficult to communicate otherwise in Sicily. For those who don’t speak Italian, I can imagine their frustration, scanning their phrase books in an attempt to contrive a few
sentences. I can picture them in their hotel rooms searching the Internet for animal welfare contacts. I’m in England, they are in Sicily, but at least I can offer advice and put them in touch with someone on the island who may be able to help.

Helen wrote to me from a small tourist town on the western side of the island:

I must add here that Helen was on honeymoon when the small feline came into her life but, as she said to me later: ‘My husband knew what he was taking on.’

I had never heard of San Vito as I’ve usually worked on the eastern side of Sicily. That was my first question for Helen.

‘San Vito is on the very North West tip of Sicily, west of
Palermo. That’s the only way I can describe it really. Nearest big town (other than Palermo) is Trapani. Hope that gives some clue! It’s basically a tiny Italian holiday resort,’ she emailed.

The moment I saw the word ‘Trapani’ I knew I had a lead. Remember the story of Dina, the elderly Dalmatian, of Susie and Esther’s long car journey from Cefalù to find her? Raimonda, the OIPA volunteer, had filled in the rest of the story. I sent an SOS email asking for her help once more. Meanwhile, I could sense Helen’s growing desperation as the hours ticked away. She continued frantically to search the Internet and contacted every lead she found, but with no positive results.

She wrote: ‘I have been through my other options which are to appeal to a Canadian-Sicilian lady we met in a cafe yesterday when we first noticed the kitten but she didn’t seem that concerned with her at the time. Or to cycle to a vet just outside SVLC to see if they would care for her until she’s big enough to fend for herself. Both are long shots. Added complication is that we’re staying in a hotel where they aren’t very keen on animals, which means we’re having to keep her out of view. I’m just dreading a situation where we have to abandon her again come Monday. I’ve even investigated taking her to Palermo and leaving her with someone there but (a) I can’t find anybody/place in Palermo and (b) I imagine Palermo is a much tougher place for a kitten than SVLC. You’re right… I feel helpless. And so sad for her.’

By now the kitten had been given a name: Gavroche, after the waif of Victor Hugo’s
Les Misérables. Oh dear,
I thought,
once you’ve done that it becomes ‘your’ kitten rather than just a
stray
. Throughout that Thursday, I waited for Raimonda’s response, while more emails arrived from Helen.

By now I was beginning to get as anxious as Helen about the fate of this little scrap. I dreaded how distressed she would be if she had to leave the kitten behind.

Meanwhile, it seemed that there were no romantic dinners à deux on this honeymoon.

So was I. I sent another message to Raimonda. Suddenly, an image of Dina appeared on the screen. Quickly, I sent Helen an email.

But Helen’s reply worried me. She didn’t seem to have read my email properly.

Later, when we met, she told me: ‘I couldn’t leave her. I wouldn’t have got on the plane; I would have emailed my boss to say I’d be back in the UK later than planned. I even thought of smuggling her onto the flight, but guessed that wouldn’t have worked.’

From San Vito, Helen wrote: ‘I’ve asked my hotel to order a taxi for 10am so I’ll let you know. Just need to find a box to carry her in now.’

‘True to Sicilian hospitality,’ Helen told me when we met, ‘the owner of the hotel dismissed the idea of a taxi and said his son would drive us wherever we wanted to go.

‘At first he didn’t understand we wanted to go to the vet, until he saw Gavroche in the box. He looked pretty surprised.’

But the vet wasn’t there: Helen was told she would be back on Saturday.

‘This is really worrying for me because if the vet is not there tomorrow, or will not take her, then I have very little time left to help her. We go to Palermo on Monday and fly to England on Tuesday and do not have a car.

‘To add to the complication, now that the hotel knows we have Gavroche they have forbidden me from letting her in the room,’ she emailed.

I sent her a very concise email: ‘Take Raimonda’s advice and go to the municipal police. They are in touch with OIPA
and will know where you should take the kitten. You can call Raimonda if necessary because she does speak a bit of English. You have the number, don’t you?’

It was by now Saturday and I was out during the day but always at the back of my mind was how Helen was getting on. The moment I arrived home I switched on my computer, once again dreading that Helen had been disappointed. What I read surpassed anything I had hoped for.

‘Hello. So some good news, I think. We took her to the police station in San Vito. When we arrived they said, “No cats, no cats!” I’m a woman with a career but I know how to become a helpless female when the occasion arises,’ she told me. ‘I sat on the floor of the police station and burst into tears. This did the trick and they fetched an officer who could speak a little English. I showed him Raimonda’s email and we telephoned her.’

Because of the language problem what happened next was surreal. Helen and her husband found themselves in a police car, presumably to go to a vet.

‘Instead they stopped just down the road outside a private house. A woman came out, holding back a barking dog, and Gavroche was whisked away.’

As Helen related: ‘I felt bewildered. We went on the beach for a couple of hours and I tried to read but just couldn’t concentrate. “We’ve just handed her over without knowing anything about what will happen to her,” I cried to my husband. Eventually, he agreed we should go and knock on the woman’s door. She greeted us warmly and invited us in to see the kitten. Gavroche was sitting in an armchair in the living room like the Queen of Sheba.

‘The lady’s name is Antonella Siino and with broken English/Italiano and un poco de Español we worked out that this nice lady is a volunteer with OIPA and that her dog is also a rescue. She often fosters animals but she had decided to adopt Gavroche, whom she has renamed Londres, in our honour. I simply couldn’t be happier that she is safe and well and being cared for by someone who is so obviously an animal lover.

‘None of this could have happened without you and Raimonda – thank you from the bottom of my heart! At times I felt like I was mad for caring so much, but you confirmed others care too. And now I’m going to go outside and enjoy the Sicilian sunshine with my husband, who I’ve barely spoken to over the past forty-eight hours.’

A week or so later, another email arrived from Sicily.

Had they checked the mother wasn’t in the neighbourhood? I queried. My sister had just returned from Spain, where two kittens had turned up at their apartment. She fed them for two days and lay awake at night, wondering what would happen to them when the family left.

‘I prayed the mother would turn up the following day,’ she told me. ‘Then, I was looking out across the fields behind the apartment and I’m sure I saw her. The kittens didn’t return again.’

But Michael replied swiftly that they didn’t think there was a mother around. He seemed to be a lost soul, crying all last night and trying everyone’s affections that afternoon.

OK, could they give me some idea as to where Castiglione di Sicilia was in relation to, say, Giardini Naxos/Taormina? ‘I think you are nearer to the eastern side of the island?’

‘We are about forty-five minutes from Taormina, and certain the mother is not around, it was crying all last night. We leave this Sunday (my wife would take her home if she could!)’ came the reply.

That evening I called them on their mobile. Michael sounded calm but Susan was very emotional. I told them about Qua La Zampa, the pet shop where, last year, Angela and Marco had cared for Lucky Star until a home could be found for her.

Later, Michael emailed: ‘Piccolino has been smuggled back into our room tonight, and we will take him to Taormina in the morning. Hopefully we can leave him there. The vet gave him a clean bill of health (I tried to explain to my wife that he was a street cat and therefore a little scrawny). Anyhow, he has just had the best part of half a tin of Royal Canin and is now exploring.’

The following morning, I called the pet shop. Angela wasn’t there but I spoke to Marco. He sounded very gloomy: Taormina was a chaos where cats were concerned. They were left outside the shop every day; he had six already. They
could board Piccolino for a few days but couldn’t commit to homing him.

I related the news to Michael. In the background I could hear Susan saying that perhaps the best thing to do would be to take the kitten back to the vet and have him put to sleep.

I reacted strongly: ‘These feral cats are tough. As you say, they do look scrawny but they survive. There will be some elderly woman in the area who feed them. Why put a healthy little cat to sleep?’

I was reminded of E.M. Forster’s novel
Where Angels Fear to Tread
, of well-meaning visitors unversed in another culture, who create mayhem and tragedy. Though I could understand their distress, I asked myself yet again,
Was it really wise to take in a small feline when you knew that, in a few days, you had to leave?
What did you think would happen to it? This wasn’t Britain with shelters and animal welfare associations; it was a country that for the most part did not care for cats. What was worse was the notion of having a healthy animal put to sleep because you thought it was ‘best’ for it.

Meanwhile, Michael came back to me. They had contacted my lovely vet, Oscar La Manna, and taken Piccolino to his surgery, where it was found he was ‘suffering from every parasite know to cat kind: roundworms, fleas etc.’. Oscar believed there was someone who wanted a small cat and would collect it the next day. Later came news that Luigi had not turned up.

‘Don’t know what we will do if he is not collected,’ Michael wrote. ‘Hopefully Oscar will be true to his word and find a caring home – he cannot go onto the streets as he is too small to fend for himself.’