Rome, City of Cats

Cats own Rome, I’d read. I suspect that when the Roman Empire collapsed and its buildings fell to ruin, cats took over. And cats, as biologists will tell you, are great invaders. When domestic cats were introduced to Australia they made a buffet of the local bird species, some of which have nearly disappeared.

The feline takeover of Rome probably happened much later, though. According to one theory, in the 17th century shepherds would bring their flocks to graze on the grass that covered the abandoned temples and arenas of the city. Rome had a serious rat problem at the time, and the shepherds made extra money by breeding and selling farm cats to the city folk.

Escaped cats bred among the ruins, and before long each monument was festooned in felines. The Colosseum that once echoed with the cheers of citizens urging gladiators to rip their enemies in half reverberated anew with the shrieks of felines battling for territory or mates. Trajan’s Forum became a vast litterbox, the marble baths—well, cats don’t like to bathe, although the Turkish Van breed likes to swim and there are cats taking showers on the Internet.

Ten years ago the cat population of Rome was believed to be between 250,000 and 350,000. In an essay the British writer James Hamilton-Paterson figured that these cats would need about 50 tons of food a day. All this food comes from private individuals, particularly cat ladies, who are known as gattare (singular: gattara). It is estimated that between 50,000 and 60,000 people in Rome regularly feed these stray cats.

World domination and an affinity to cats. I had to go to Rome. Some years ago, en route to a film festival, I decided to stop in Rome for two nights. Time and budget being seriously limited, I could only visit the Colosseum, the Forum, Chateau Borghese, the Fontana di Trevi where Anita Ekberg placed a kitten on her head in La Dolce Vita, and Largo Argentina.

My short itinerary was further depleted by a luggage problem. I had arrived in Rome without my suitcase, which the airline neglected to stash on the plane. Half my time was taken up by frantic calls to airline personnel, who assured me that my suitcase was being delivered to my hotel that very minute. It was not, necessitating more phone calls. (Suitcase and I were finally reunited five days later, on the other side of the country.)

Ididn’t get to see the Caravaggios at Chateau Borghese, but I saw a lot of cats. The Romans have wisely turned their feral cat population into a tourist attraction. At the Colosseum there are not only pugnacious-looking cats who have no fear of humans, there are also calendars, photo books, T-shirts, mugs and souvenirs with pictures of said cats on them. If these felines had managers and agents they could collect enormous royalties.

Largo Argentina is a large pit containing the oldest ruins in Rome. Julius Caesar was assassinated in the area, but my real interest in Largo Argentina is based on its more recent history. It is the home of hundreds of stray cats cared for by an animal welfare group. The first cat I saw was a black and white tabby dining on an orange spaghetti with meat sauce in a styrofoam container. My reaction was amazement: Roman cats eat pasta! My cats turn up their noses at carbs; then again they have a choice (and a human slave who will buy the specific brand of kibble they demand).

The ancient foundations were off limits to humans but not to cats—a few dozen were sprawled on the stones, sunbathing. They ignored the tourists leaning over the railings to gawk at them, and although they survived on the kindness of strangers they appeared quite healthy.

While I was sitting on a bench pretending not to consult a map, a long-haired gray cat padded out of the excavation and walked up to me. Cats have always liked me, and thanks to my housemates every stitch of clothing I own must reek of cat pheromones. The gray cat meowed, I meowed back — I have no idea what our conversation was about but it was fascinating.

Then he approached my pant leg and turned around, tail raised and quivering. Fortunately I knew what his intention was. I moved away before he could mark my jeans, that is, squirt them with pee. He must not have been neutered yet.

The cat looked amazed that any human would decline to get peed on. (Insert joke about males here.) We had a short staring contest, and then he went off to eat his pasta. It’s a good thing my luggage had been delayed or I might’ve considered taking him home with me.