I had a cat, in Beirut. I gave it a friend, rescued from a cage on a sidewalk in Gemmayzeh. I called Hamra, the red in Arabic, as the name of my neighborhood, overlooking the changing immensity of the sea. It was initially so small that when she slept, curled up on the couch, its diameter was less than a span.
Its fragility was a deception: hiding the nature of fair Arab fighters. I found out the day came to stay with me a friend of Trieste with his cat, a Siamese named Bamboo. Bamboo was a Sleeping Beauty of Old Europe, gray hair, cautious movements, old age, castrated childhood. Hamra met with a terrible new youth.
It happened when she was got by Puff female who, having defeated the attempts of veterinary sterilized, scratching to blood. I never eat jelly with the drops to sleep, and never allowed the doctor to touch her. He had a mysterious feline wisdom, and had been determined that the man with the white coat was the tomb of his desires.
Months later, he gave another demonstration of his temperament: he was when Israeli bombs rained down from heaven and you, like a good Lebanese, perfected an instant personal survival technique, scoured in two seconds from the terrace to the kitchen, finding refuge in a ravine behind the dishwasher.
When the time came for the cravings, and was soon taken to emit gurgling sounds terrifying. Stirred on the carpet of the hall, showing the baby's bottom furiously to Bamboo or, failing that, to the wall. The noble Trieste responded to those motions plebeians, sometimes with disgust, curling mustache and bending its tail, sometimes with terror, beating a retreat under the skirts of his mistress.
Taken to calling the Lionheart, conscious of being unfair. Yet it seemed to me, their interaction, a parable of our times: I saw all the confusion of gender, any confusion of who it turns out well in male and female, I saw, in short, all the difficulty of distinguishing the females by males, in times of female and male youths and Mandrake without hair.
My friend suggested that it could also be a metaphor for energy in developing countries vis-à-vis fatigue sterile post-modern Europe, or maybe I said, this bullshit, do not really remember. I remember very well, however, the plot twist. By and by, one day, in mild chest Bamboo, surfaced echoes of distant manly instincts.
We saw him move forward on the table, at first uncertain, suddenly fearless, upturned tail, look strong, and Hamra grasped from behind in search of some cathartic union. We tried a huge penalty against a male who wants to but does not know what nor how. And while we were concentrated on his defeat, almost escaped us the spectacle of the Lebanese tiger, exasperated dall'aristogatto no balls, slipping on the roof to gaze at the moon. 
Its fragility was a deception: hiding the nature of fair Arab fighters. I found out the day came to stay with me a friend of Trieste with his cat, a Siamese named Bamboo. Bamboo was a Sleeping Beauty of Old Europe, gray hair, cautious movements, old age, castrated childhood. Hamra met with a terrible new youth.
It happened when she was got by Puff female who, having defeated the attempts of veterinary sterilized, scratching to blood. I never eat jelly with the drops to sleep, and never allowed the doctor to touch her. He had a mysterious feline wisdom, and had been determined that the man with the white coat was the tomb of his desires.
Months later, he gave another demonstration of his temperament: he was when Israeli bombs rained down from heaven and you, like a good Lebanese, perfected an instant personal survival technique, scoured in two seconds from the terrace to the kitchen, finding refuge in a ravine behind the dishwasher.
When the time came for the cravings, and was soon taken to emit gurgling sounds terrifying. Stirred on the carpet of the hall, showing the baby's bottom furiously to Bamboo or, failing that, to the wall. The noble Trieste responded to those motions plebeians, sometimes with disgust, curling mustache and bending its tail, sometimes with terror, beating a retreat under the skirts of his mistress.
Taken to calling the Lionheart, conscious of being unfair. Yet it seemed to me, their interaction, a parable of our times: I saw all the confusion of gender, any confusion of who it turns out well in male and female, I saw, in short, all the difficulty of distinguishing the females by males, in times of female and male youths and Mandrake without hair.
My friend suggested that it could also be a metaphor for energy in developing countries vis-à-vis fatigue sterile post-modern Europe, or maybe I said, this bullshit, do not really remember. I remember very well, however, the plot twist. By and by, one day, in mild chest Bamboo, surfaced echoes of distant manly instincts.
We saw him move forward on the table, at first uncertain, suddenly fearless, upturned tail, look strong, and Hamra grasped from behind in search of some cathartic union. We tried a huge penalty against a male who wants to but does not know what nor how. And while we were concentrated on his defeat, almost escaped us the spectacle of the Lebanese tiger, exasperated dall'aristogatto no balls, slipping on the roof to gaze at the moon.
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