Emanuela

Our gentle, funny and sociable tabby cat Tilly is very possessive of her humans. They are hers and hers alone, as any other cat that we approach or that approaches us will immediately learn. Fixing the latest chancer with an unblinking, golden-eyed stare while pressing her small yet muscular form tight against one or other of us, her message is clear: “These are my humans. You can’t have them.” But Mr Blue-Shirt and I are not quite the only ones to have earned Favoured Human status with Tilly. No, there is one other person who has been awarded this title: her lovely ‘Zia (Auntie) Emanuela’ who takes care of her whenever we go away.

It took some finding her, though, as catteries are rare round here: when it comes to looking after cats, it seems people tend to rely on neighbours or relatives, neither of which we have nearby. So it was only after an extensive search conducted over several weekends and culminating in a referral to a friend of a friend of a kennel owner that we were finally directed to Emanuela, who lives on a modest smallholding tucked in the hills on the far side of the Potenza valley about 10km from our place. As soon as we drove through the sturdy metal gates and down onto the broad gravel courtyard, it was obvious that raising and caring for animals took precedence over growing fruit and vegetables. To the right of the gateway was a spacious hen coop with a large run around which pecked a selection of chickens, turkeys, geese and even a couple of guinea fowl. A row of half a dozen roomy, home-built kennels ran down the rest of the right-hand side, each with its own outside space, and each housing one or two dogs, the whole lot jumping and barking and tail-wagging as we crunched across the gravel and came to a halt in front of the squat, single-storey house. But it was only as we got out of the car that we noticed all the cats dotted about the place: on the window sill, in a wheelbarrow, under a kiddies’ trampoline, on the bonnet of a battered Fiat Panda and at least three more curled up in the shade of the hedge running along the bank to the left – all of them clean, bright-eyed and extremely well-fed.

While we were still playing spot-the-cat a small, stout figure with an enormous bosom and a rolling gait emerged through the sun-bleached curtain covering the front door, a work-hardened hand outstretched in greeting and a broad smile creasing her deeply tanned face that was framed with curly black hair flecked with silver.
“Ciao, ragazzi! Benvenuti! Sono Emanuela.” – “Hi, guys! Welcome! I’m Emanuela.”
In between shushing the dogs and sending her skinny, stooped and almost toothless husband Gino off the fetch us some eggs, she pointed out the cats – “He’s Zorro – he’s nearly twelve. That little one’s Mikki. And that tabby one’s his mother, Nutella. My grandson named her, ” she explained with a throaty chuckle, her deep-set, pale blue eyes sparkling with humour. As she continued with her roll call, we knew we had struck gold: Tilly would be just fine here.

We were right. For Emanuela’s love for animals knows no bounds. In addition to the cats, dogs and poultry, all of which she rears herself, she also keeps a couple of horses and a handful of scruffy sheep as well as a transient population of waifs and strays. On one occasion this even included a pair of sleepy rescue tortoises that she excitedly insisted on showing me, grabbing me by the hand and heading off across the drive to the pen she’d erected in the field behind the kennels. Humans rate pretty highly, too, mind:  she also regularly cooks for her son and daughter-in-law who live in a matching bungalow at the rear of the plot, babysits for at least two grandchildren, and was primary carer for her mother until the latter’s dementia became too advanced even for the indefatigable Emanuela to cope with and she went into a care home, and finally also for Gino, whom Alzheimer’s reduced to a fragile shell within barely two years. The only time I have ever seen her less than fizzing with purpose and vigour was when poor Gino died quite suddenly of pneumonia earlier this year; the only time I’ve seen those sparkling blue eyes glassy with tears.

And amidst all of this, Emanuela has continued to shower Tilly with love and attention – and fill her to bursting with turkey biscuits – every time we’ve gone away. Indeed, the two of them have become such good pals that instead of putting her in one of the generous, purpose-built sheds behind the house, she has long given Tilly a room to herself inside the house and allowed her the run of the cosy bungalow in the evenings when all the other animals are shut away in their pens, eventually even letting her snuggle up on her bed at night. Oh, yes: Emanuela is definitely one of Tilly’s Favoured Humans.