SALVE ROMA! A Felidae Novel - U.S. Edition Read Free

spring had reached him a little early. You know ... dwelling on nonsense and ripping off people also wo rks well under southern skies.
    No, Gustav, really had something evil in mind for me. During his absence, he wanted me to be in »professional care«. At a home for my kind, called – disgustingly cute – »Guesthouse Paw«. Irresponsible humans brought their pets there during their holidays or stupid business trips. Incredible! Shocking! Animal disregarding! I was to be send to jail and listen to the tragic lifetime confessions of lonely, soft-minded fellow prisoners day in, day out, so my so called owner could be celebrated as the Einstein of Archeology in beautiful Rome. My answer to that: A bsolutely out of the question!
    As early as one second after Gustav had finished panting about the happy news and left for the bedroom to pack his clothes that for the most part were remains from the seventies, a new plan stirred in my brain cells. Yes, this might work ... Though only if the animal foe would carry the backpack that looked like the monstrous hunchback of a gnome from a fantasy movie, like he usually did. Also, only if he, like the scatterbrain he was, forgot to lock it at the top. This way it really might work. And if it did, then not only would my plan become reality, but more than t hat it would even outdo itself.
    Loaded and dressed like the most stupid tourist ever, Gustav was back in the hallway only about half an hour later and looked at me full of phony pity. On his back I saw the backpack, probably left over from his blessed times as a hitchhiker, when as a young blue whale he had senselessly tramped through the world. Of course it wasn’t locked at the top. A stage win! He was wearing a golf cap and multi-colored shorts as if he was leaving for a concrete castle at the Costa del Sol. When the Roman scholars saw him, they would probably push him into this early Christian catacomb and fill it up again.
    After he had ordered a ticket over the airline’s check-in hotline, he used his foot to push the basket, which was usually used to transport me to my annual check-up at the nice doctor, from behind the doorjamb. I acted like I didn’t have a clue about his intentions. Satisfied about the fact that apparently I wasn’t about to bolt, he came towards me, grabbed me around the waist and put me into the box. A last checking glimpse at the turned off gas range and the turned off lights, and off we were in our old Citroën CX-2000 to our purportedl y oh so different destinations.
    I have to admit that the place, which was situated in a former bakery, didn’t quite look like the dungeon of Dr. Fu ManChu from the outside. Through a big showcase, passing pedestrians were able to assure themselves of the proper care of the prisoners and enjoy their sight with endless » aww -how-cute«-whoops. That boundless boredom counted as a form of tortu re wouldn’t cross their minds.
    Inside at the welcome counter stood a skinny, graying old woman who was dressed totally in black and might have a good chance to win »Ms. Knotweed« at the Night of the Witches. She smiled the smile of a marionette, at which her lower jaw jerkily flapped up and down while the rest of her face stayed absolutely fixed. For the one-month-care the animal lover told Gustav a price, which easily might have bought 80 hectare of the best spruce forest in Canada. While my false friend battled against the hypertensive impact of the price shock, he opened the grill of my box in passing so I could have a look at the dungeon and, in his belief, was able to acclimate.
    Everything was exactly like I had expected it to be – just as fatal. It was a big room with a terrace-like, gradient wooden platform divided by several barriers. On that there were doll’s beds and pillows, in which about thirty fellows (in misery) dozed towards delirium. Those who were awake stared ahead apathetically. Food and water bowls as well as litter boxes lay about everywhere on