The events of this story happened way before Italy dropped the lira for the euro as a currency. Lara, my mistress picked me up among a litter of kittens in a farm near the town of **, half way between the cities of Alessandria (Piedmont) and Pavia (Lombardy).

I am a classic tabby, my fur a speckled combination of grey and black but for my left front paw which is completely white. Accordingly, Lara called me "Sandalino" (little sandal) shortly shortened to "Lino" by her family, that is her mother and father.

Lara and I developed an immediate friendship. I would help her with her homework by nibbling on the pen she was writing with, or sitting on the book she was reading, or the notebook she was writing in. Sometimes, as I was curled on the sofa, she would surround me with all her dolls and lecture them on how to behave at court in the presence of a king (read me). Or she would tell them that I was a Siberian prince in disguise and that at any time I would change into my real princely self and select the one doll among them best suited to become the queen of my Siberian kingdom.

Next summer we ran together alongside the fields of wheat that fluttered like waves of gold. In Lara’s orchard I caught a few moles to the hearty approval of her parents. At times towards the end of a Sunday afternoon, while relaxing in the garden, they all would be greatly amused to watch me stalk, punt, tense, adjust my aim and finally jump in the air to capture the occasional fly. What humans find intriguing and amusing in us cats is our ability to enjoy and concentrate on the thrill of the moment, of the now, seemingly unfettered by the past and unencumbered by the future.

But "everything that grows lasts in perfection but a little moment", the mood of relaxed contentment that pervaded Lara’s household changed suddenly in the fall. Apparently, Lara’s father had heavily invested in a financial speculation that went sour and now Lara’s very house was at risk. Sometimes I could hear her mother sobbing alone in the kitchen. By early December it became necessary for the family to vacate the house and move to a city. I heard myself being discussed – it would be impossible for me to go with them. Lara was crying. Eventually it was decided to ask the nearest neighbors to take care of me with the slim hope that in time I could join Lara’s family again.

The neighbors’ family was the opposite of Lara’s. They were loud, kept 3 dogs and had no understanding whatsoever of felines. My food was the dogs’ sloppy leftover and they kept me outside at night. The pain at having lost my home and the friendship of Lara hung heavy on me. I lost weight and interest in life. One December evening I decided I would walk away – if I had to die I would do so in the fields where just a few months before I ran so happily with Lara. Away in the distance, diffused by the mist were the lights of ** and I started in that direction. As I was treading in a stubble field I heard the terrifying and loud bark of approaching dogs. With my last strengths I made towards a mulberry tree and climbed it. At the foot of the tree the dogs barked and jumped in their vain attempt to get me. Eventually they left. Slowly I climbed down uncertain as to whether I could find the strength to walk any further. When finally I reached the main square of ** it was deserted and everything was still. I could see a slither of light through the portal of the parish church. The door opened as I approached it and I quickly sneaked inside unseen, by instinct I suppose. I saw a bright light at the left of the altar – it turned out to be the halogen light illuminating the Nativity scene. I was very cold, I went towards the light, come-what-may I jumped on the plank and lay down in an empty space near the crèche grotto right under the bright reflector – finally some warmth. He who had opened the church door and inadvertently let me in was Father Francesco, the parish parson. He was making the last evening round checking doors and lights before closing up the church for the night.

As he approached the crèche he saw me. "Who are you? – he said - it is a bit early for the Three Kings and I see that you are lying down in their place. Given the spot you have chosen, I should call you like one of them, Balthazar maybe. And you don’t seem to be in the best of shapes either. I’ll go and get you some warm milk. Tomorrow, I’ll call Mrs. Rosati, the church attendant and she will bring you some more substantial food." He quickly came back with the warm milk and left the crèche light on as my source of heat. He even brought an improvised litter box that he placed under the planks. We cats are very particular in these particulars.

Next day Mrs. Rosati, a retired widow employed as an informal logistics manager of the church, brought me some liver and chicken that restored my strengths. After the meal I returned to my spot under the lamp. Soon after two mothers and their little children came to see the display. "Look, Mom, a cat in the creche", (un gatto nel presepio), said one of the little boys. In short, the boys told their brothers of school age. All the school classes came to visit led by their teachers, who took the occasion to lecture about religion and felines. I was photographed and my picture ended up in the local newspaper. This brought in TV crews from neighboring cities. ‘The cat in the creche’ became a kind of slogan. More people came to visit including the town council of **. Even the atheists of **, from the association "Friends of Voltaire" showed up as a group and made a significant contribution. They did not believe in God but liked Father Francesco. And with each group and as the news spread the contributions to the Christmas charity offerings increased to reach eventually an all time record.

‘Una tantum licet insanire’ said Father Francesco to himself in Latin. That is, ‘once in a while it is OK to be mad’. "Given this unexpected bonanza – he thought – this year the Christmas dinner for the poor and the people alone in ** will be the best ever". For this purpose he hired the catering services of a five-star hotel-restaurant in Turin and he even engaged a renowned classical music quartet to play during the event.

Needless to say, that extraordinary Christmas banquet was a huge success. Even the mayor and all the town council of ** volunteered to serve at the dinner. I was the ‘hero’ of the event and I appeared in a large picture with my name by the Christmas tree in the dining hall. In turn, the exceptional banquet caught once more the attention of the national and now even international media. More offerings arrived from all over the world, especially from expatriates of ** who were pleased to see their town publicized throughout the world for such an amusing, friendly, generous and good-hearted event. The after-Christmas offerings exceeded what Father Francesco had spent on the memorable Christmas banquet.

On the afternoon of December 31, Father Francesco approached the crèche where I was napping and said to me, "Every year, this day and more or less at this time I thank God for the good that He decided to bestow on me during the previous 12 months. But this year I must make an exception and include you in my meditation on gratitude. Balthazar, you are an extraordinary creature, thank you." I was moved but to allay somewhat the solemnity of the moment I simply tipped the tip of my tail in acknowledgment.

And so I became the official church cat of **. I had my second Austerlitz during the following February. A lady parishioner had just entered a confessional booth and immediately emerged screaming, along with a mouse that scurried along the mosaic pavement. I promptly captured the mouse and delivered it at the feet of Father Francesco in the sacristy. I caught a few more mice during the following weeks. One Sunday Father Francesco declared from the pulpit that thanks to my efforts he could now declare the parish church of ** a mouse-free ecclesiastical establishment.

In April a letter arrived from the Dioceses for Father Francesco. He was to be sent as a missionary to Africa. Father Francesco never feared to challenge the arrogance of power or to fight for social justice. His social views raised concern among his ecclesiastical superiors - the re-assignment did not arrive unexpected.

"I am sorry I cannot take you with me, Balthazar, - he said to me before he left – but the cats I am likely to see in my new assignment are not like you". In any event, I am sure that my replacement and Mrs. Rosati will take good care of you." I was sorry to see Father Francesco go – he had saved my life. But "what can be avoided that has been purposed by the mighty Gods?" as Julius Caesar once asked.

Father Francesco’s successor’s character was at the antipodes of Father Francesco’s. He was indifferent when not hostile to me. Mrs. Rosati took me to her home and I became her cat.

The next several years rolled on calmly and contentedly. Mrs. Rosati would tell me daily of the events of the town, of who was "in", who was "out" and of the "pacts and sects of great ones that ebb and flow by the moon". I earned my keep by catching the occasional mouse or mole in her neatly kept orchard. In the summer I particularly liked to curl down on the earth between rows of tomatoes with their pungent, penetrating smell – back inside Mrs. Rosati would rib me and ask if I was a cat or a tomato. And so I slipped into the feline version of the sixth age, "the age of the lean and slipper’d pantaloon", as Shakespeare calls it.

Then one December afternoon the doorbell rang. When Mrs. Rosati opened the door I seemed to recognize a female voice but I wasn’t sure. "Do you have a cat that once was the cat of the church?" the voice asked. "Yes – said Mrs. Rosati – would you like to see him?" "Yes, please, may I?"

I was lounging on the sofa when in came what I can only describe as a magnificent young woman – her blond hair fell on her shoulders like a golden fleece. Her brilliant blue eyes seemed to fill the room as if she had brought in a piece of the sky. She would have reminded you of Botticelli, but not his Venus, rather the Primavera.

She looked at my paws and said "Sandalino!" and she picked me up. Now I was doubly sure, humans have a unique signature scent, sometimes unbeknown to themselves. I recognized hers immediately, two third rose and one third peach. She started crying - I pushed my head against hers.

Invited by Mrs. Rosati, Lara sat down and told her of her inquiries about me in town and of the first part of my life. Mrs. Rosati told of the other. Lara, as I learned while sitting on her lap, was now an assistant Art Professor at a Milan university and published a popular series of children books that she herself wrote and illustrated. The following summer she was to be married to a Professor of Physics teaching at the same university.

Quickly, too quickly came the time for Lara to leave. She picked me up once more and again started crying. Mrs. Rosati, herself moved asked, "Would you like to take the cat with you?"

Lara hesitated for a moment and then said, "No, Mrs. Rosati, it is clear that you are taking very good care of him and he has had too many home changes already. For a cat a home is an integral adjunct of his master, the foundation of his world-view. Yours is his home now – it would be unfair to take him away. However, I would like to give you this" – and she handed her an envelope containing one million liras in 10 notes of 100,000 lire each – "with the request that I may come and visit with him sometimes".

Mrs. Rosati looked inside the envelope, pulled back one step and said with an air of indignation, "You can come and see him every day of the year, if you like, and I mean it. Balthazar (or Sandalino if you prefer it), is a true companion to me but I categorically refuse to accept any money for it" and handed the envelope back to Lara.

Now they started bickering, as Italians are fain to do when competing in nobility, kindness, consideration and generosity towards each other. This went on for several minutes. Eventually Lara convinced Mrs. Rosati to accept her gift on one condition. On the next 6^th of January Lara and her fiancée would be guests of Mrs. Rosati for a dinner in my honor and to celebrate of course the Epiphany, the feast at the root of my second name.

This was easily agreed upon and Lara left. After her emotional state subsided, Mrs. Rosati sat down in her living room chair and picked me up on her lap. "Devil of a cat" – she said – "One year thanks to you our Church gets the largest Christmas offering ever – and now, again thanks to you, I receive the largest gift I ever had in my whole life. Who are you? What is hidden behind those clear, mysterious, intelligent eyes of yours? Are you an alchemist, are you the re-incarnation of a magician from the Middle Ages?"

I would have liked to answer with what Leonardo said of us, "The smallest feline is a masterpiece", or more modestly with the lines of a writer, "The incredible thing about cats is their endless range of personalities. But under the fur, whatever color it may be, there still lies, essentially unchanged, one of the world’s free souls." All I could do, however, was to stretch my front paws and slowly extend my claws half-way to acknowledge her praise.

Outside it was snowing now. The snowflakes spun slowly and hesitantly before settling on the ground like fluffy white dust. "Tomorrow I’ll go out for a while - I thought – I like to see my tracks in the snow. Then I’ll return inside and lay myself on the rug by the fireside, strewn and stretched to the extremest inch of my geometrical possibilities, soaking the warmth from the glowing, crackling, burning logs."

Yes indeed, freedom, affection, warmth, a home, a bit of food and a sense of humor. For us cats that’s the good life – the equivalent of what the Americans call ‘The American Dream’.

Jimmie Moglia

-Shakespeare's Views on the News-

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