The sun has risen in Greece, but the Grecians haven’t. I am walking Nafplio’s quiet streets, alone in the cool of morning. Most shops are closed. And I am followed by cats.
Nafplio has hundreds of feral cats. Maybe thousands. They are everywhere. In every nook and hollow. And each morning there seems to be even more.
“I don’t know how many stray cats we have,” says one embittered shopkeeper who is unashamedly anti-cat. “I think maybe we have a million cats. No way to know for sure.”
He’s right. Cats don’t sit still for census takers. Cats won’t even sit still for other cats.
Nevertheless, the old storekeeper doesn’t represent the majority. Nafplio is evidently full of cat people. There are food and water bowls all over town. There are cat beds and cat treats everywhere. There are cat people galore.
You can spot cat people from a mile away. Because, of course, there will be cats around them.
Which is why the cats feel comfortable here. They do not run and hide. They live in a perpetual state of freedom. They chase each other openly. They play tag in the streets. Leap from the hoods of parked cars. Recline in the sunlight. Sprawl in the middle of the walkways. Lick themselves. They purr, paw, parade, perch, and preen.
They sit prettily on the doormat as you pass by a closed shopfront, giving you a death stare.
Cats have a talent for knowing who does and doesn’t like them. They can glance at a person and just know whether you’re a cat guy or not.
Moreover, they are unbothered by disdain. A cat will deliberately seek out a self-professed cat-hater, rub its feline body against that person’s legs, and either win that person over or trip and kill them.
The cats in Nafplio seem to have a lightly active social life—sort of. They appear to stick together, but not in the tightly clustered way dogs do. Dogs are the frat-house boys of the animal kingdom, whereas cats are the French assassins.
Still, my walk through town is interspersed with lots of petting. I can’t travel six feet without stopping to greet a feline.
One thing I admire about cats: they have such differing personalities. Some cats are joyously unafraid of humans. Some plop right in front of you, roll on their backs, and expose their little pom poms.
Other cats, however, are skittish and need reassurance before you’re allowed any closer. You don’t know what these cats have been through. Or what’s made them this way. And you can’t help but recognize the same fear of being hurt that you’ve seen in the mirror sometimes.
I pride myself on winning over even the hardest cases.
The trick with a skittish cat is not to want them. Not to need them. Not to notice them. To remain in their vicinity, but not require anything. No eye contact. No cooing. Just calm disinterest. Usually, the most cautious of cats will waltz right up to you. And if you are lucky enough that one brushes its tiny body against yours, you’ve won a real prize.
As I walk, I sometimes encounter a kitten, poorly fed, begging for food from passersby. The kitten will usually follow me. He’s too young to be distrusting of humans. Too naive to know better. All he knows is that his tummy hurts. So he mews loudly. If he were using words, they would be: “Please!”
You can tell a lot about a human by how they react to a hungry kitten.
You can tell a lot about the older woman who uses her shoe to nudge away the panhandling babe so she can pass by. Or the disgruntled man who uses his walking stick to shove the kitten aside and shoos it away.
Likewise, you can tell a lot about the schoolgirl who squats and tries to feed the kitten—along with the entire feral-cat population of Greece. She willingly gives away her hard-boiled egg. Then she disassembles her sandwich and sacrifices that, as well.
More cats rush from the shadows to lick her bread crusts, gobble up cold cuts, and eat her bits of cheese. When her lunch is gone, she is not sad it’s over. She’s glad it happened.
She turns to leave. The cats follow her through the street like the Pied Piper. And there is a new spring in her step.
I pass another older woman, not unlike the girl, standing on her doorstep, calling the cats. There are maybe a dozen kittens gathered around her. She is filling bowls with dry food and water. The rattling sound of kibble can be heard from far off. Cats come out of the wallpaper. They swarm.
The woman speaks sweetly to them. Not with baby talk, but the way you’d address actual humans and not lesser beings.
Sometimes, I wonder whether a soul must give love before they can receive it. Or whether it’s the other way around. Maybe before you can give love, you must first be a recipient. Maybe love is a beautiful disease, and only the infected can share.
I have received so much loving-kindness in my lifetime. I have been touched warmly by the hands of strangers. I have been fed by passersby. I have received help from those who had no reason to notice me, let alone love me. But they chose to do both.
In other words, I’m a cat guy.
