Life according to Mr Young

Mr Young’s not happy. Generally when the head of a household is not happy, everyone else pays for it. However, it seems that in crossing the pond, or at least since arriving in Marche, Mr Young has abdicated his regal role and has become a subject. And a rather nervous one at that. In fact, if I didn’t know of his prior feats of bravado (catching mice and birds, staring down another cat in our garden from behind the living room window, etc), I might be tempted to use the word “paff”. However, he – like his 10-year-old owner – is an extremely good-natured, friendly, non-aggressive animal, and for those qualities that label is undeserved.

It appears, though, from his point of view, that he’s wandered – or been led (by us) – into a hornet’s nest. Every sound or move is treated as a life-threatening monster, and – eyes wide and ears flat – he freezes, waiting for the pounce or the swoop or the on-rush that he’s convinced is coming, and when it doesn’t, he scuttles back hurriedly into the security of the caravan.

It seems, on the one hand, that his master’s protectiveness might have something to do with it. During the night (his normal witching hours), Mr Young is confined to the caravan, including – for the first week – the performance of his ablutions until mom put her foot down, the air proving a little too rank for sleeping as a result. Upon my arrival, my attempts at liberating him after sunset from his caravan prison were met by wailing and resistance, to the point that I was forced to choose between my son’s contentment and our cat’s. With persistence, however, Julius’ rigidity on this score has loosened up, and so – not coincidentally – has Mr Young. In a fit of being himself yesterday, he was seen climbing to the top of the willow tree (the first time he’s climbed a tree since arriving here), and haring around and growling like a loco, just as if he was back in his Chapel Hill milieu.

As much as Julius’ own behaviour might have influenced Mr Young’s, it is, after all, an entirely new environment. Apart from the obvious (i.e. Italy), this means farmland, where the sights, sounds, smells, and creatures are all brand new. Julius’ protectiveness stems from the presence of wild boar in the area, which, while dangerous if confronted, are seldom seen.

But there are also farm dogs – free range, as it were, and rather more “coarse” than the suburban variety – as well as cats, some of them wild. One of them – a cute, silver-grey one – appears to have been inhabiting our house, and is no doubt puzzled at the invasion of his territory. While he (or she) doesn’t seem to be aggressive, Mr Young has encountered him, and clearly recognizes that he’s in someone else’s domain.

And as I delve into the psychology of Mr Young’s angst, I reflect how little we know of the rules of the animal world, as we summarily ignore them and stumble over established boundaries, creating conflict as we do. I’m reminded of an arrogant superpower imposing its will and its rule on nations that it doesn’t understand (although in our defence I think we’re ignorant rather than arrogant, and caring rather than callous).

Naturally, though, our allegiance is to our benevolent ruler (Mr Young), who we’d clearly like to see regain his throne. I’d therefore better run now to make sure that the sound of the boiling kettle that I hear has now caused him to break out in hives…