Cat and dog paradise

… maybe not for me …

My neighbours took me to visit the man near Tolfa. There was a small white house tucked into the corner of a large open grassy field. There were towering shade giving trees, a stream ran through the property. There were hills, and an open sky overhead. Where the farmhouse had seemed to have been the landscape for a gothic novel, the sunlight and soft breeze felt as though I had entered a dream come true.

The man we met was dressed in what seemed to be rags. He took us to see six horses, four were his. He told us his girlfriend had left him some time ago, and he was looking for someone to help him with the horses and the bed and breakfast. She had done all the cooking and cleaning. I felt that I could look after horses and clean, but cooking was a different matter, especially for Italians.

This man had a slightly acrid scent, as though of stale alcohol. I did not know if it was that he had only just been drinking bad wine, or whether his cells were steeped in alcohol.

After having seen my possible bedroom, and learning the cats, dogs, and horses were all welcome, we left. As this man had reminded me of a hairy Mr Bean, we shall call him Beanie.

Back at the farmhouse

Papa farmer told me how I should bring people with horses to his farm. He told me he would let me have a hectare of land, we could go into business together, and he would take people out on trail rides. I am invited to go riding with Papa farmer, and two others. One is a woman who has known him for a long time. The farm belonged to his father, she tells me, and Papa farmer was left to live there on his own from the age of twelve. He used to work for the noble family in the area, relations to the family I left at the house without clean running water. When I ask how it was to work for them, Papa farmer tells me some strongly felt words, I had to agree with his sentiments.

As I am not sure how the family would receive the news of Papa farmer offering me a hectare of land, and his not having a stall number for the horses, there was very little likelihood of me opting to bring my horses. We had words, when I told Papa farmer that I would not be paying the last month’s rent and that he could deduct it from my deposit. He shouted at me, and later apologised. I don’t know if it had anything to do with the conversation I had overheard:“You shouldn’t talk to her like that. She is very sensitive. We don’t want to chase her away.”

Stallion, cats, and brambles

I met up with Beanie a few days later. During this visit he tells me he drinks one and half litres of wine a day; he has a young son; he wants me to help him with the horses, and to take people out on trail rides. I was told about the young stallion that needed to be trained to lead in a halter so that others would be able to take over turning him into a show jumper. I’d done this before, so it seemed like it would be an easy enough job. I was also told there was no drinking water in paradise, as it still had to be connected. As I have lived having to boiling rainwater from a catchment tank, this didn’t worry me. There was a spring up the road where drinking water came out from the side of a hill and filled a fountain for people and livestock. Beanie also told me other information about his relatives, and lent me a book written by an aunt.

That evening, against the better judgement of all my friends, I told Papa farmer I would be leaving at the end of the month. The truth is I didn’t have the funds to keep my apartment at the farm. Another of my mistakes.

One day Beanie calls me to take people out riding. I am told to just take them along the dirt road. Asphalt turns into gravel, I do not know the area and, as this is the first time I am taking people out, we turn around and go back the way we came. Luckily the people are happy with the ride. They stop to eat lunch, there is an older woman who is doing the cooking. I am relieved! I do the washing up. Beanie tells these people I am an international horse trainer … I say I think he means painter. I meet the ex-girlfriend who has a too old face for a seemingly young woman, and the sweet son.

I am still not living there, and am told to get rid of a tiny grey cat with her kittens. Beanie is afraid his old dog will eat them all. After a quick phone call I take cat and kittens to a friend of mine who is looking for an assistant to reduce the mouse population. It was months later when I noticed little mother cat had moved in with my yoga teaching friends. She had crossed a field, a dirt road, and another large field to reach them. She had chosen to live in their garage and live a more gentile life. She recognises me when I visit the yoga folks, and comes to say hello, which is how come I know this about this little cat.

Another part of my “job” in paradise was to promote Beanie’s bed and breakfast. A Caribbean group I was involved with had remembered their lovely day out when I had lived at Poggio, the house I should never have left. They wondered if they could come to where I had moved to. There would be around twenty of them with children. Beanie’s set up would have been ideal, so I began to plan with my friend who was leading the group. Beanie became huffy when I told him about the group and declared he wanted to talk to the “man in charge”. I had to explain that the man in charge was actually a woman (Big SIGH).

I met the man who owned the stallion that needed ground breaking. The man had bought this horse for his daughter, who was thirteen years old. Over a few days of attempting to train this horse, I realised he was too much for me to handle. The horse was aggressive, bit, and reared up. I told Beanie, and we decided I should call a good friend of mine with experience with difficult horses. He was also teaching people who wanted to leap horses over obstacles.

My friend arrived, observed the horse for a few minutes, took the lead rope out of my hands and jerks a little on the rope and speaks some harsh words. The young stallion raises his head, looks at him in surprise, takes on a meek and gentle expression, bows his head and decides to behave himself. My friend tells me the horse is aggressive for only one reason, even at this young age someone has tried him out as a stallion. With the permission of the owner we arrange to move the horse to my friend’s stables at Canale Monterano, where he took over training. This meant that one of my possible jobs had evaporated, I did not mind, the horse was now in the best hands.

I moved into dog and cat paradise with my dogs, cats, and paintings. The cats and dogs were very happy, and immediately made friends with the tom cat. Shanty cat was the only one that made friends with the old dog. I would find Rosso on the roof, the cats were all relaxed and happy. They were out all day hidden in the cool shade of the bushes, as it was becoming hot, and they would find their way back at night to clamber through the open window of my assigned bedroom.

Disturbingly often, however, I would find Beanie sitting on the cold stone of the empty fireplace in his living room. He would be smoking one of his deftly rolled cigarettes with a glass of wine near by. He began to return from work with a five litre demijohn, which he attempted to hide under his jacket. I really didn’t understand why he felt he had to do that. Perhaps I was to notice, and comment. I had, unfortunately, fallen into that trap of attempting to save this man from himself. I had told him he was destroying himself. Life could be better without so much of the wine.

I resolved to keep as far away from him as possible. I decided to only appear if he actually called on me, or if there was something to be done. I hid in my room when I knew he was to return from work. One day Beanie called my name and I appeared in the doorway between his house and the veranda. He seemed happy, he actually seemed to be glowing: “I just wanted to tell you that I am glad you are here,” he said. I wondered why my immediate reaction was to feel alarm bells go off in my stomach.

My friend from Ghana came to visit and, after meeting the owner of paradise, told me Beanie was an alcoholic. She told me about her two brothers, how one was no longer drinking, and was in treatment, but the other had died. In her own down to earth, matter of fact, flat way she had of speaking her mind, she told me I could not live there with this man and must move. She even offered me an apartment on top of her house to stay with cats and dogs, but she was still waiting for the township to grant permission to make the required renovations to add a bathroom and small kitchen.

I began to realise that, even though my father had been an alcoholic, I knew nothing about living or being around someone who has difficulty with alcohol. I realised I didn’t know how to act, or be. I realised that a part of me had wandered off, and I didn’t know where it had gone, or when that part of me would be coming back.

I continued to hope life would improve. I was looking forward to the Caribbean group coming to visit. I began to clean up around the property. I was surprised to find tables and chairs on a terrace that had been overgrown with brambles, and spent time hacking away at the vegetation to clear the space. I cleaned the windows that surrounded the covered and closed in veranda.

Beanie suddenly became anxious about so many people coming to his property. I should probably have told him these were very friendly people, they came with their own food and drink. They knew how to cook and barbecue. I remembered they had also helped me clean up before they left. They were the sort of perfect guests you want to return. This group had also been in touch with me about having a weekend camp for children. They would have sent someone to do the cooking, and to help look after the children. This all seemed to cause Beanie even greater intense anxiety.

I soon learned why Beanie was becoming so anxious. He told me the township had not given permission for the veranda to be built. In fact all the brambles had hidden its existence from the upper road. I wondered if this lack of permission also included the ground-floor bedrooms, including mine, the outside bathroom, and the out buildings with the tack room. I understood that Beanie, notwithstanding wanting people to pay to go for a ride along the dirt road and eat a little lunch, did not actually want anyone coming to visit. He told me to tell the Caribbean group organiser that the water pump didn’t work, and I had to find another place for these people.

When I told the leader of the group, she laughed at the water pump not working. I had already asked friends who had a restaurant “El Condorito” near Canale Monterano, and they put together a menu with a price list, and this was sent out to the group. We had a lovely meal and a special relaxing day. I acted as waitress. I’ve just checked, and it seems this restaurant is still there today, along with being a place to board dogs. These owners had also offered me a room until I got myself back on my feet.

That day, on my return from the lunch with the Caribbean group, I found a car I didn’t recognise in the driveway. It turned out to be Beanie’s brother. He had told me a lot about his relatives. I never knew if it was him or the wine talking. Was this the brother he had told me he was afraid of? The one that had been present when his older brother had jumped (been pushed?) under the train? This man lowered his head to hide his expression as he saw me get out of my car. I saw that he had makeup on his face, a fake tan. He told me they had rented three of the bedrooms in the house and I had to move.

It was confusing over the following few days because I heard Beanie tell his ex-girlfriend that he hadn’t asked me to move. Then he told someone else that he had asked me to move. He told someone else that I didn’t need to move. One day I returned from the stables near Anguillara and found all my belongings had been shunted to an outside bedroom with metal bunk beds, or removed to an outside storage area without a roof.

The escape

I had been invited to the stables, where my three horses were, for a party. I went. I must have mentioned that I had to move because one of the owners asked if I would like to take over the ex saddle room, where the stable hand had been living. I could also help his brother with the horses while he concentrated on training. This seemed like a solution, I would be among friends, and I couldn’t think of anything better than working with horses.

So, after a few more days of living in cat and dog paradise, I moved what I could with my car. My paintings went to the garage under my friend’s house in Manziana, cats and dogs were moved to the stables. I began my new job of taking care of 25 of the 50 horses present at that location.

At least dogs, cats, horses and myownself were all in one place. All the driving could stop for a while, I could settle down in one place, and wait for the possible return of that part of me that had inextricably walked away leaving me so suddenly without one word of farewell.

Will stop here for now.

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Until the next time!