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GREEK INDEPENDENCE DAY

The War of Greek Independence, sometimes referred to as the Greek Revolution, began in March 1821 and lasted until 1832. Most of the area known today as Greece had been occupied by the Ottoman Turks since the fall of Constantinople, now called Istanbul, in 1453. That’s not the only name change the city has experienced. In 330 AD the Roman Emperor Constantine took over the city of Byzantium – a major crossroads then as it is now between East and West – and established it as the new capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Byzantium became Constantinople, from the Greek meaning the city (polis) of Constantine. It seems it made better sense for the Romans to wield their power in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Aegean from a more central position.

And powerful Constantinople certainly was. In addition to its most advantageous location, the city had abundant wealth and was a significant cultural and academic center. Every major religion was represented, every school of thought, every profession and every calling. Every ethnic group and virtually every language then spoken found its way at some time or another through the centuries to Constantinople. Famed and fabled Constantinople attracted the kind of attention that few other cities could boast of.

I’m no historian. Some of you will know far more than I do about Constantinople’s long history, and particularly the impact of the Crusades. I’ve been to Istanbul (which no Greek will call by any name other than Constantinople) and love it. But now? Turmoil and upheaval are the order of the day again, and with Erdogan making waves with his claims to certain of the Greek islands, you’ll occasionally hear a Greek jokingly say that the Turks are on their way back here. Others shake their heads, muttering that many a word said in jest…

The Ottoman Turks controlled almost all of present day Greece for 400 years, with the exception of the Ionian Islands held by the Venetians, and the Mani Peninsula of the Peloponnesos. A long, long time during which the Greeks never lost their language. I could rattle on at great length about this period – the fascinating subject of countless tomes and theses – but you can read up on it if you’re at all interested.

The Greeks had made many attempts over the centuries to overthrow the Turks. The Peloponnesos, a thorn in Turkey’s side since she first invaded Greece, finally declared war on Turkey on the 17th of March 1821. The conflict was long and brutal. The Greeks had their allies and the Turks theirs. Great Britain was one of the countries that came to the aid of Greece; some accounts have tended to romanticize her role – Lord Byron’s involvement in particular with his tragic death being a factor. Byronas, as he’s called in Greece, is a national hero who is celebrated throughout Greece for his determined efforts in the Revolution, literally dying for the cause. Many boys are named for him, as are streets, squares and buildings.

March 25th is a national holiday in Greece, marking her independence from Turkey. The day is a joyful one. Parades take place throughout the country, from simple flag ceremonies in small villages to major parades in cities. Proud schoolchildren and various cultural groups wear traditional costume, while the blue and white flag of Greece flutters from hands, banners, buildings, balconies, and just about anywhere a flag can be hung or stuck into a holder. Happy gatherings celebrate the day and if the weather decides to play nice – for winter’s nearing its end – the festivities are even more fun.

The Independence Day Parade in Athens is an elaborate affair, complete with military displays and ponderous speeches by an assortment of bigwigs – in other words, it’s typical of this type of thing. What’s noteworthy though is the march of the evzones, the elite Presidential Guard.

In every video of the Independence Day parade I’ve found the commentary is in Greek, so instead I’ve chosen to give you a link to the parade which takes place every Sunday at 11.00. This is quite a display whatever the weather, culminating in the changing of the guard. In summer the temps can be over 100 deg F – the outfit must be murder to wear.

If you like a parade, here you go – you may need to copy the link and paste it into your browser.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qq4KP9CU63E

This particular video is very long and not well edited, with a rather choppy cut into the national anthem at the beginning, but it shows the march from the barracks to the cenotaph, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in front of the Presidential Palace. These soldiers are part of an elite unit and are called evzones.

You can read more about the Greek National Anthem here
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hymn_to_Liberty

and listen to it here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDTVFbTHB5w

or here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAXByp_xLy8
This version gives a nice little slideshow if you’re interested.

The presidential guard changes on the hour, every hour, all year round in front of the cenotaph, but it’s only on Sunday that the full parade takes place. As you can imagine it’s quite a tourist attraction.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pw-5GYg8WGo

This video is quite interesting – the maker gives a little commentary; I must point out though that the guard changes every hour, and not every two hours, as he says.

A BASKET CASE

 

This winter was a pretty bad one. Worst in living memory is what folks have said about it. Winter here is a season I usually enjoy though most people don’t, and I can see why. For sun lovers it doesn’t get a whole lot better than Greece with her typically placid summers, long and hot. Dependably so.

Once in a while the gods get angered and tempers fray up there on Mt Olympus. Zeus hurls a few thunderbolts about, Aeolos pitches his winds into the mix, and between them they might fling some rain around.

It’s usually all over in a flash, sometimes several flashes, but it doesn’t last long and it doesn’t happen often during the summer.

This winter nearly did me in. The sun pulled a vanishing act. It simply up and left. Perhaps Helios felt slighted that Chione, temperamental goddess of snow was getting too much attention and so he went into a prolonged sulk. Whatever. We missed him. We’d arise to damply dismal days, with fog so thick that frequently we couldn’t see much of the Pagasitic at all.

For the first time in my life I was affected by the lack of light, and began to understand what Ron means when he refers to the cabin fever of Alaska. Peering through the gloom at the distorted outlines of familiar shapes among the olive groves I could almost imagine that I caught glimpses of centaurs chasing about.

We’d been away so long last year that one of the storerooms wasn’t opened up until we’d come back and needed a few items. An awful smell greeted me as I unlocked the door and found, to my horror, that some of the bits and pieces were pretty much covered in a black mold. Yecch! The worst affected were the baskets I’d put there when I went through a de-cluttering frenzy a couple of years ago. Housekeeping not being my strong suit, I’d decided then that I was tired of dusting them, and probably even more tired of extricating the cats from them.

The only way to attempt a rescue was to wash the mold off, but the weather was so wet and the sun so absent that drying them was going to be a problem. I placed the sorry-looking baskets in a spare room with a dehumidifier, which Ron had to empty constantly, until winter began its journey south and the sun started getting over its snit. Finally, after still grumbling and grousing its way through a few days, gracing us with only brief appearances, the sun recovered its good humor and beamed down brightly.

As soon as I was reasonably confident of weather reports predicting prolonged periods of sun I set the baskets out in the courtyard and got to work with the hose, spraying the mold off carefully. A gentle brushing with a very soft brush completed the task and although some of the woven grass has darkened a little in color, the baskets emerged none the worse for the experience. I’m much relieved for apart from the fact that I have a great appreciation of the handmade, several of my baskets are quite old and are filled with memories.

This little basket has a history. It’s one of my most precious possessions. A great many years ago my Mother helped a Zulu woman who had come to our back door. Several days later the woman returned in order to give this basket she had woven to my Mother. Mother was overwhelmed by the generosity of a rural woman who had so little in material terms, and treasured the gift. It’s worth noting that she had walked many, many miles to come to our home. Barefoot. In the blazing sun. My Mother kept her knitting in it until I, by then in high school, relieved her of it to store my knitting needles.

Ron’s Mother purchased this beauty about 60 years ago in Taiwan. It’s a funerary basket, used to take food to the grave of a loved one. It’s woven of rattan, lacquered in red and black, with decoration in gold paint. I have no way of knowing if the female figure on the lid is a general representation of a mourner, or was commissioned for a particular person. Fortunately the basket suffered no ill effects from the mold although it was so covered in the gunk that no color could be seen.

Here are a few more from my collection.

Yesterday my friend Carrie in Austin sent me these pictures of a basket she’s just made.

One of two she’s making for her cats, having noticed, like me, that kitties are partial to taking naps in baskets. My cats, it must be said, are partial to taking naps anywhere that’s likely to inconvenience me. Ah well…

 

YOU TALKING TO ME?

My friends sent me this delightful photo of their kids reading my new book.

We do so take the wonders of the Internet for granted – one click and a book ordered from America can very soon be read by a brother to his sister in Greece.

It’s worth noting that young Michael’s English, his second language, is so good that he immediately queried the title, and asked why it’s not: “Are You Talking To Me?”.

Bless him – that lad is sharp. His parents explained the shades of meaning, and the ways in which tone and inflection can affect the interpretation of the title’s question.

I love that Nelly’s hanging on to every word and how much her brother is enjoying the opportunity to impress his little sister.

EXTENDED FAMILY?

At last count the number of cats on the property, including our longtime pets Retsina, Ouzo, Mythos and Raki, is now 10. The Cappuccino Twins

and poor little Bud

were here when we arrived back. The twins are permanent residents, as is Brandy, initially called Mama/Papa for we weren’t sure at first what relation he is to the now teenagers.

Some of the original homeless ones have vanished – presumably gone back into Kalamos village as people arrive to take up residence in holiday homes. At least I hope so and it’s not because they have met a grisly end.

We have fortunately managed to trap and neuter two of those remaining, but they are very wary and hardly ever venture out of the forest. They will always be feral as it’s long past the time they could be socialized but at least they won’t reproduce, and are fed.

There’s a third cat, though, who has been coming and going, and had been absent for quite a while. But she, and yes quite obviously it’s a she, bulging with kittens, started showing up again a few weeks ago.

I’d catch glimpses of her at the food bowls, or hear Raki protesting loudly – he is not at all fond of trespassers on his property. The cat’s very nervous and it’s taken me quite a while to even approach her, but hunger clearly reduces her inhibitions, and she’ll eat rapidly while gazing warily about her.

She disappeared again for several days, during which time I became convinced she must have had her kittens, for she had been so heavily pregnant that her belly would drag on the ground while she ate. She has returned, no longer pregnant and absolutely ravenous.

Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s had a large litter, and maybe it’s not her first. Freddie maintains she’s the sister of Bud, the twins and one of the teenagers which has vanished. Could well be the case for the twins aren’t bothered by her and she’s pretty much the same size as them. Same coffee color also, but could she actually be their mother?

She’s come each morning in the last three days. I have to keep a close eye out for her as Mythos is determined that she must leave – he’s rather ugly to her in fact – and so I have to grab and lock him up while she eats, much to his irritation.

What I’m hoping is that she’ll bring the kittens over from wherever she’s hiding them. Then they can be handled and get used to humans, and that means I can get them homes through PAWS

I’ve warned Ron that should there be a tortoiseshell in the litter, it’s mine. I fervently hope so for I’m a devoted fan of the tortie. In fact, I cannot remember a time without a tortie in the household – my Mother adored them also.

Should this cat stay we’ll neuter her as soon as the kittens are weaned, and I suppose she’ll inevitably be named Shandy.

 

BUD

 

  

SHADES OF ROALD DAHL

Several years ago Costa arrived at the house late one afternoon with a happy grin on his face.

“I’ve something for you. Will you give me a beer?”

Biera. That’s possibly one of Costa’s favourite words. Fond of his beer is Costa, and we make sure to have a supply on hand. He drops in when he’s working in the area, and we have our little ritual of beer for Costa and tea for me. He’s the most cheerful man, loving to crack jokes, especially about being a Muslim.

“Yes,” he’ll laugh, “I’m a very good Muslim – I drink beer and I eat pork.” (It’s worth noting here that over 50% of Albanians are secular Muslims; the country was under harsh Ottoman rule for five centuries and then Communism for decades.)

“Are you both well?” he continued, as I made ready to fetch him a beer.

“Sit! Sit!” He led me to a garden bench. “I’ve brought something you will like.”

He darted off up the driveway towards the gate. Puzzled, I waited. Hiding something away to surprise me with is a little game of his.

“What is it?” he’ll tease. “What do you think I’ve got?”

Could be anything. If it’s a plant or bunch of flowers he’ll keep it behind his back until he’s satisfied I’m sufficiently curious, then he’ll produce it with a flourish. He’s a great showman, is Costa, and a most kind and generous person.

He came trotting back down the drive carrying a typical round Greek terrace table. You see these classic little tables everywhere in Greece. Simple and practical they’re the stuff of picture postcards, often painted blue, set amid pots of bright red geraniums, and with an inviting jug of wine or cup of coffee atop them.

They’re iconic, instantly recognizable as Greek, speaking of lazy summer days. Mind you, I’m not sure if the days of the staff who serve customers in tavernas and coffee shops are all that lazy – they run themselves ragged taking care of their customers.

But the table Costa was holding aloft was not new. Its top was quite battered, what little paint left on it flaking off in a mishmash of grayish green, mixed with plenty of rust. It was charming. I loved it instantly. It reflected a great deal of age, hand wrought of thick steel and still perfectly sturdy.

“Costa!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“What do you care?” came his standard reply. “I got it and it’s for you. That’s all you need to know.”

Bless him, he knows I appreciate the old, the unusual and most especially the handmade.

We put it in a corner of the terrace where it stood proudly for several years facing Mt Pelion, often graced by a red geranium in an old ceramic pot. The winds can be very fierce across this terrace. Aelos, god of the wind and chosen by Zeus himself, doesn’t always tease gently off the sea. At times he hurls himself savagely onto the land, particularly when Zeus is having a right old spat with his wife Hera and has demanded that Aeolos do his bidding.

The original geranium has been replaced many times, so vicious can Aeolos be when he decides to release the winds under his command, but the pot and the table have never yielded to him, and the table became even more weathered and dignified in its old age.

“You need to let me paint that,” Costa would assert, frequently, over the years. “It’s old and people will think you are very poor and can’t afford to buy a new one.” Appearances matter to Costa.

“No, you can’t”, I would reply. “I love it like that. It’s beautiful. It has a history. Who knows where it’s been, and how many tales it can tell us? Just you leave it alone, there’s no need to paint it.”

Costa would merely sniff, but one day, after a couple of beers, he did reveal he’d found it dumped in a gully with a pile of builder’s rubble. It could have come from anywhere, but it certainly has had a long life.

As you know, we were gone almost all of last year. Costa and Freddie were absolute stars, taking it in turns to come down from Albania to look after our numerous pets and keeping everything going here. Costa isn’t usually in Kalamos during the summer because there’s not much work. The winter months are his busy ones as it’s then that the olives are harvested, the trees pruned and the lands tidied up. So he had lots of time on his hands, and he used it well, doing all kinds of little chores about the property.

Have you read Roald Dahl’s wonderful story “The Parson’s Pleasure”? If not, you’ve missed out on one of his typical pieces of black humour. This tale involves the destruction of a genuine Chippendale commode, and yes, you’ve guessed right. Costa channeled Dahl, of whom he’s never heard although Dahl’s delicious stories must surely have been translated into Albanian.

No, Costa didn’t saw the legs off my beautifully distressed table, my gorgeous piece of shabby chic, but he did finally get his way. He painted it.

He went to all the trouble of having someone buy him the paint, and he painted it. Bright green yet. Rather a startling bright, glossy green. He couldn’t wait to show it to me when we returned.

I confess I gasped. I was stunned, but Costa was thrilled, assuming I was delighted. Oh dear. No way could I have hurt his feelings. Never could I do that. So I told him it was perfect, absolutely perfect, I praised him for his thoughtfulness.

And Costa beamed. He’s so proud of it. He’s overjoyed to have made me happy. And yes, it’s absolutely not what I wanted, not at all, but you know what? It is perfect. Absolutely perfect.

 

THE CAPPUCCINO TWINS

Grappa

She has a round little face and sleepy eyes which belie the fact that she’s a demon of a huntress – I should have named her Artemis after the Greek goddess. No butterfly is safe. No lizard awakening to spring sunshine can get away fast enough. I spend a lot of time supervising her antics, and am rather relieved when I can finally shut her and her siblings up for the night.

Anise

This little one has a thing for Ron and follows him everywhere, much to Raki’s skinny-eyed disgust.

They are both very affectionate, come at once when called and are so full of life that it’s an awful time waster to be around them. Delightful!

Notice how well camouflaged they are in sand and rocks.

BUD UPDATE

Bud is not blooming, I’m very sorry to say. We took him to Theresa on Friday because his appetite was poor and he had no interest in anything. Bud, that wee devil who’d zipped around here at the speed of light. Bud, who’d instigated every kind of kitty mischief. Bud, who’d struggled against being put into his bed for the night. That Bud was lethargic, getting thinner by the day and wanted only to hide away somewhere. Theresa was concerned. “Is he being bullied by some other cat?” she asked. “His personality has changed very much.”

It certainly has, and no, he’s not bullied. We know where he is all the time, and we know something’s not right. What is it though? He had a slight temperature, but Theresa didn’t feel it was significant. She’s put him on yet another course of antibiotics – shots which Ron gives – as well as more anti-inflammatory and pain medications. He’s eating so little now that it’s a struggle to get the liquid meds into him through his food.

He’ll need to go back to Theresa for blood work in hopes of getting a diagnosis. She’s puzzled, but doesn’t think it’s feline leukemia; so many kittens here are born with it. While some never show symptoms, others succumb rapidly.

I hope we get an answer soon because this little boy is not thriving. Not at all. He’s not much more than skin and bone now. Even after the drama of being trapped, after nearly dying with that awful throat problem, Bud was a bundle of energy.

We’re holding thumbs that he gets better.

GET MY DRIFT?

COMMUNICATION: a process by which information is exchanged between individuals through a common system of symbols, signs, or behavior

As previously mentioned Costa and I do a lot of talking in various combos of Greek and Albanian. He speaks a fair Greek considering he learnt as an adult when he came here from Albania in search of work.

Kids usually learn a new language so much more quickly than adults do, but it’s amazing how much can be communicated by just a few words, and the universal language of hands. Pointing, waving, gesturing help quite a bit to get a point across.

“So,” says Costa, “I cut down your oleanders. That’s upset you?”

“Well, yes, seeing they were flourishing and seemed always to be in bloom.”

“They’ll grow,” asserts Costa, “they needed it.”

“But I didn’t tell you to cut them back,” I respond.

“Well then, cut me down,” he jokes, making ghastly throat cutting actions. “I’m Albanian. We had the Ottomans. We know about that.”

“Stop! Just stop!” I say, shuddering. He’s been making these jokes for years. We used to laugh, but now in the light of recent horrors they can’t even be thought of.  I throw up my hands as we play through the familiar pantomime. “Do what you like, Costa, do what you like.”

He grins and goes off into the garden, whistling.

His cheerful whistling is another form of communication for it usually brings at least one of the cats and dogs running. No words needed. It’s probably also a very polite way of Costa pointing out that he’s won. Again!

When it comes to people trying to communicate in a foreign language it’s invariably a game of hands. Some cultures ‘speak’ with hands more than others though, and family and friends tell me they can tell what language I’m speaking just by watching my hand movements. I’m not conscious of it, I must say, but it’s interesting to know.

The hand raised in greeting is one of the most ancient forms of non-verbal communication. It’s universal, and when accompanied by smiles it’s clearly friendly. The classic STOP hand signal might however have all manner of connotations, from a warning of danger ahead to a very definite “Get the #$!* out of here!” The accompanying body language often establishes the context.

I had a wonderful conversation in Izmir with this lovely fellow and his companions. We laughed, we smiled, we made hand gestures. None of us had the faintest idea what was being said. It didn’t matter a bit. What was being said was that we were having a grand old time just being. They were all such good ambassadors for their country; it’s distressing to think of what’s happening there now.

It’s probably not escaped your notice that I love to knit. And yes, I guess I do go on about it. A bit.  Yarn and needles are a language spoken worldwide. There can’t be many countries where the language of knitting isn’t known, where yarn and its attributes and possibilities are not at the very least a dialect.

I have been fortunate to meet knitters in many countries. We have an instant connection – we communicate instinctively without any words. Non-verbal communication is more than adequate when the topic is knitting. The hands and eyes can explain whatever it is you want to know about a technique.

Diagrams and symbols, yet another form of non-verbal communication, can be jotted down and carried with you to be studied again and again, and can be passed on to others.

Those who speak knitting are often oblivious to the lack of verbal communication. The spoken language barrier is of no consequence. Demonstrations, the show-and-tell and the tactile signals translate without any effort from those participating in the discussion.

I have never failed to make an instant connection with a knitter whose language I do not speak. I have never been treated with anything but the utmost courtesy, delight and enthusiasm. I have been warmly embraced, offered refreshment and have often had a gift pressed upon me.

The hands that show me new ways to knit are the same hands that pat mine approvingly when I master some fabulous new technique. The hands that patiently guide my awkward ones are the same hands that would probably like to shake me as I blunder along.

Without my hands and eyes I am reduced. With only my voice to communicate I would be diminished. This photograph of my friend quite literally in touch with a blind man had me close to tears when I took it. They had no common language, but the gentleman could ‘see’ her, he told me, and could tell she’s a very good woman. Communication with no need for words.

The very, very young typically have enormous eyes, a feature designed to appeal to the protective instincts of adults of that species. That demon Raki is a case in point, and coupled with his pathetic little cries he had no trouble communicating his desperate need for care. We fell for it!

So did Mythos, who communicated a great deal of loving care to the infant Raki, and interesting that he recognized Raki posed no threat to his position as dominant male cat.

Non-verbal forms of communication such as signs and symbols written in some manner on a surface that can be preserved convey information of every conceivable type, in every language from the most ancient to the very latest graffiti.

Nothing new about graffiti though – we’ve been making marks where we shouldn’t for aeons.

Messages can be communicated in coded symbols by various means, as witness the tally of guillotined heads entered into the knitting of the fictional Madame Defarge. The methods of passing on info through symbols range from messages worked into textiles, from smoke signals to flags, from piled up rocks to carvings on trees and from word and number play to fires and flashing lights. Such communications are limited only by man’s imagination, and that the intended recipient must know the code.

Music and dance are modes of communication with roots almost as ancient as man himself.

Dances are often codified forms of expressing the record of a culture, as this example of traditional dance from the Pelion village of Trikeri shows.

Costumes, simple or elaborate, body painting and various markings used by countless peoples throughout recorded history contain information of importance, not only to the group, but to anthropologists and other academics who might be engaged in studying them.

The objects carried by this Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church are visual communications, as are the traditional robes, which serve to establish his standing in the hierarchy. These symbols are non-verbal communications of his authority and understood by all who are part of the particular community. So powerful are these symbols that even foreigners understand the implications.

Language and other means of communication have interested me for a long time, ever since I was a small child living in a variety of cultures. I’ve been fortunate to have written a book about language and communication so that kids might enjoy it too.

https://www.quartoknows.com/books/9781633221550/You-Talking-to-Me.html?direct=1

BUD GETS A HAND

Young Bud is a live wire, constantly getting into scrapes, but three weeks ago yesterday he surpassed himself in the trouble stakes. Quite literally. The morning was chilly but with less cloud than we’ve been subjected to this long and bleak winter.

The various teenaged felines were going about their and everybody else’s business in the weak sunshine. In the house, out of the house, up the trees and over the walls. Retsina and Ouzo hadn’t yet stirred from their bed – our bed – Raki was taking a light nap and Mythos lounged in front of the fireplace.

At my computer with ever-present mug of tea in hand I pondered the world’s doings. A pleasant distraction as we all know which I justify in the interests of keeping informed.

Piercing screams of pain filled the air outside my window. Bone-chilling cries that paralyzed me as my brain raced through the possibilities. We’ve had packs of dogs tearing through the property occasionally this winter. Hunting dogs that should never be near here have caused us consternation for fear of a cat being caught.

Yelling for Ron, no clue what I was getting into, I flew down the stairs and out the door. The agonized howling continued. I hurtled round the side of the house in its direction and saw Grappa and Anise huddled together, staring at a tumble of ice-ravaged plants.

Costa, bless his darling heart, is the passionate creator of these grounds. I could write a book on his horticultural activities. I could write volumes on our earnest discussions as to why what he’s done/is doing/is going to do is not what I want/like/deem suitable.

Lest you get the mistaken idea that I have any clue about plants let me assure you that I don’t, but even I know that planting a succulent alongside a rosebush is not going to result in a blooming future for either. Simply put – Costa does his thing. I suggest, I protest, I insist and the outcome is always the same – Costa does his thing.

Our gardening consultations are merely practice sessions of our Greek and Albanian.

But I digress. A few years ago an excited Costa arrived in possession of a plant which he assured me was very special. I’ve learnt not to question the provenance of some of these noteworthy specimens. “Why do you care?” is the response. “It’s here, that’s all you need to know.”

This particular example was planted close to the house, on the seaward side. In summer the sun beats down relentlessly on that spot. ‘”Does it want the sun?” I ventured. In retrospect I don’t think it did but Costa surrounded it with wooden stakes and bits of rebar over which he tied some ground cover. “There! It’s got a little house to protect it from the sun until it’s big and strong.”

I was dubious but agreed to water if faithfully through the summer when he’d be back in Albania. At some point it lost the fight for life, but the ground cover flourished into a rather strange looking clump.

From under this winter-entangled mess Bud’s head and front legs strained in a desperate effort to get free. It took a few seconds before I fully understood that he was somehow stuck for I couldn’t see the rest of him. Ron arrived at a run. “He’s trapped!” I yelled, adding to the ear-splitting noise. Ripping out ground cover and summing up the situation immediately, Ron rushed off to get wire cutting tools.

I crouched down as best I could, bad knee notwithstanding, and grasped the terrified Bud by the scruff. The poor creature was crazed with fear and it took all my strength to restrain him. Pinned down as he was, struggling violently to get away, I feared he was going to damage himself very badly.

It took several seconds to cut away part of the vegetation so as to establish how exactly Bud was caught, and then several more minutes to begin cutting through the wire that ensnared his left back leg. Further petrified by Ron’s efforts to release him Bud worked his neck from my grasp and sank his teeth deep into my hand. I managed to grab hold of him again, but he so contorted his body that he was able to bite me once more and rake my arm deeply with his front paws.

Overcome with pain and shock I abandoned him – at least he couldn’t reach Ron – and ran icy cold water from the garden sink over my hand. Blood was pouring profusely from the wounds, so much of it that the paving looked as though something had been slaughtered. My hand swelled up alarmingly.

I rushed inside to douse my hand in antiseptic, wrapped it tightly in a towel and went back to the scene. Bud was still not free, and when Ron finally severed the wire that was holding him fast, it had been pulled so tight during Bud’s struggles that the loop around his leg could not be cut loose. Bud collapsed on the ground, and Ron was then able to work the snare free.

We were faced with a dilemma. I clearly needed treatment, so did the cat. Sunday, remember? No vet.

“I’ll lock him up under the stairs,” Ron took charge. “He’ll be safe there until we get back. It’s familiar. He has his food, his water, his litterbox, his bed.”

I began to protest: “What if he dies from shock?”

“Cathy, then so be it. That hand needs immediate attention.”  He placed the seemingly unconscious Bud in his bed, covering him lightly with his blanket, and we set off for the Health Centre.

It was not a pleasant ride through the mud and the rutted road. My hand throbbed intensely and I could really have used a seriously strong cup of tea.

The crew at the Argalasti Health Centre was fantastic. They always are. I felt so bad that we were disturbing them at a time when there was no other patient present – they deserve every break they can get. Instead I was the center of their attention.

“Do you know the cat? Is it feral?”  I assured them Bud was fully vaccinated.

“You’ll need a tetanus injection.”  I assured them I’d had one not a month ago when Mythos bit me, but that’s another story.

“You’re very brave.”  I assured them I wasn’t about to pitch hysterics.

My hand required a lot of treatment. I was cautioned what to do if it got any worse, given a prescription for antibiotics and was sent on my way under a shower of wishes for a good recovery and fervent hopes that they wouldn’t need to see me again. Not sure how to interpret that one!

Bud was a little more alert when we returned. I nursed him on my lap for the rest of the day. That is when I could spare the time from working my way through the collection of chocolate Ron had bought in Argalasti while we waited for the pharmacist.

By morning Bud was stronger though very subdued. Limping, of course. We set off again to Theresa. No fractures, but he did have a severe sprain and damage to the tissue. She gave him several medications by injection and prepared the syringes of antibiotic for Ron to inject him at home.

We also had to give him anti-inflammatory and pain meds orally, in addition to the cortisone he was still taking for his throat problem. Thank goodness he did take all that easily in his food.

Bud has not recovered his spirits, I’m afraid to say. Has the trauma affected him permanently? He’s subdued and timid, though as affectionate as ever. He’s hesitant to go outside, and you’ll see in the pictures that he hides away when he does. It bothers me to see him like this, though it’s good that he likes to spend his time indoors with me. Keeps him safe.

My hand has suffered too, no surprise there, for the bites were deep and into the bone and tendons. The swelling is almost completely gone, but my little finger will not bend properly, and there are painful lumps at the bite sites. It is, of course, my right hand that’s affected.

Ah well, I guess I have to hand it to Bud.