Yesterday Bambi called Nuvola “stronza.”

Not nice.

If Nuvola were a person and not my Dainty Princess, she would have taken immediate exception to the insult, which roughly translates as “shithead.”

Many cats have lost their temper with Bambi. The surprise is that Bambi lost her temper with a cat. She has never been anything but gentle and loving with all my creatures, never raising her voice and always exercising special patience that makes therapy fairly easy.

Nuvola is a petite darling, 10 years old. She is mostly white but has a tiger striped tail and markings on her legs and nose and tiger markings on her head that resemble a crown. She has natural “liner” around her eyes and, in her prime, was a plumpish butterball, soft and smooth to the touch. When I put special treats out for the cats, she will always reach her paw in to take her morsels and nibble off the floor instead of competing with the dominant personalities jostling to eat straight from the plate.

Nuvola suffers from chronic colitis, and she has reached a point where her malnutrition requires additional therapy. Along with a high protein diet, weekly vitamin B supplement and an increased dose of prednisone, she is supposed to have fluid therapy for 7-10 days. Some days I have been able to catch her and put her in the bathroom until Bambi arrives, but since Bambi is punctual Roman-style, I hate to keep Nuvola shut in the carrier for any length of time.

Sometimes Nuvola hides behind the door inside the living room cabinet when Bambi arrives. Seated on the floor, Bambi is usually able to give her the therapy there. Not yesterday. Yesterday, Nuvola scratched Bambi and, after insulting her and flinging the fluid-filled syringe across the room, Bambi refused to waste any more of her time on my Dainty Princess.

All the while, Cubby Duccio sat in the dry bathtub behind the shower curtain with the bathroom door wide open waiting for his therapy.

So, what made Bambi snap? A combination of fatigue and stress? Except for our mutual passion for cats, we do not confide in each other, so I hope her indisposition is temporary.

Today Bambi made up with Nuvola.

I had Nuvola ready in her carrier in the bathroom when Bambi arrived. Bambi spent a minute or two stroking her head and talking softly to her before she injected the fluid. Then she called Nuvola “patatina” (“little potato”), in Rome a humble term of endearment.

Italian can be such a beautiful language.

While the jasmine is still in full bloom, intoxicating the streets and squares of Rome with its magical scent, I give you a life- and love-affirming list of some of my favorite Italian composers, singers and songs:

The Top Two:

Gino Paoli - Una lunga storia d’amore

Bruno Lauzi - Almeno tu nell’universo, sung by Mia Martini

In roughly descending order:

Jimmy Fontana – Il mondo

Gino Paoli – Il cielo in una stanza

Vasco Rossi -  Sally; Vita spericolata

Lucio Battisti - La canzone del sole; Una donna per amico

Franco Battiato – Centro di gravità permanente; La canzone dell’amore perduto (by Fabrizio De André)

Mango – Lei verrà; Mediterraneo; Fare l’amore

Zucchero – Menta e rosmarino; Va’, Pensiero (by Giuseppe Verdi)

Renato Zero – I migliori anni della nostra vita; I giardini che nessuno sa

Giorgia – Come saprei

Eros Ramazzotti – Adesso tu; Aurora; Stella gemella

The Very Special Prize goes to:

Emilio Pericoli – Al di là

This classic, from the soundtrack of “Rome Adventure” (1962), is still performed at weddings and anniversaries. The film starred Troy Donahue and Suzanne Pleshette, and her character was named Prudence! The Hays Code was abolished in 1967, coinciding with my first trip to Europe. When I arrived in Italy I didn’t fly on a plane but on the wings of that melody and that golden voice, with lyrics I could not yet appreciate. Then came 1968.

Everything in life has come to me late, and I have no adventures from the world youth revolution of the late Sixties to relate here. I yearned for it all, deeply, but in action I erred on the side of prudence when I should have thrown prudence to the winds. Easier said than done, especially in hindsight.

Like my musical choices, I am, I admit, a “romanticona,” but I have always felt that love was indefinable and marriage could entrap a woman and limit her potential. Therein lies a good part of my story.

In an interview a long time ago my favorite Italian director, Michelangelo Antonioni, stated he always had a problem declaring his love. If you have seen any of his classic films, you will understand. I was young and green at the time and thought, “what’s bothering him”? With the years, I have come to comprehend.

A few days ago Renato and I went around town in the Mercedes for the first time since he lost his Pippo.

The occasion was devoted to my day job, not my dream job. My day job is fun, but not as much fun as my dream job (ho, ho, ho), but, all in all, I can’t complain, especially when I put things into perspective.

The night before, Renato’s boss called to advise me not to bring up the tragedy because Renato was still vulnerable.

Renato showed up wearing his nicest suit and tie and was, as usual, cordial and professional all day, giving the best of himself.

We had a good day together. After work, in the car, he gave me a laminated plastic card with a formal color photo of Pippo on one side and his and his wife’s remembrance printed on the back.

Pippo was a good-looking kid with the kind of smile that must have come easy to him, just like his father’s. Even though the photo was a close up, you could see that at 12 he was big for his age, almost as tall as his father. He looked like the kind of kid you’d just love to put your arm around and give a big hug, even if he was sweaty and dirty after a soccer game. A sweet kid. A golden boy. A buddy and a pal.

I told Renato I would treasure the photo and that I had already lit a candle for Pippo that morning. As promised, I have placed the photo next to a reproduction icon of the Madonna and Child I have kept on my bookshelf for years, from apartment to apartment, from Rome to New York to Rome again.

The icon was a gift from an old college friend, a bighearted, altruistic girl brimming with joy and laughter. An Ivy League honors student with a Jewish background who renounced a life of privilege to become a nun and serve the poor. I lost contact with this friend decades ago, when Meli was still a baby, but I know she is praying for us all, whether on earth or in heaven.

Natural contrarian that I am, I wasn’t a good Jewish girl nor am I an exemplary Catholic, but I always keep that icon in view to remind me of that friend and what selflessness is all about.

Renato told me that the day after Pippo died, in the midst of their family’s grief, their 14-month old daughter stood up and started to walk. Renato believes it was “as if,” in spirit, Pippo, who loved his baby sister immensely, returned to take her by the hand and guide her as she took her first steps in the world.

Since last November, once a day, almost every day, morning, noon or night, a special visitor rings my doorbell.

The stage is always set for her arrival. The kitchen and bathroom lights are on, the bathroom door wide open, the shower curtain fully extended along the length of the tub, which must be completely dry.

As I ascend the steps to greet the visitor I repeat in an affected, cheery voice (think of Mrs Poole, Valerie’s neighbor): “Look who’s here. It’s Bambi. Bambi’s here.”

Most of the time this announcement produces the desired effect. Cubby Duccio runs from wherever he may be esconced into the bathtub to hide behind the curtain.

Sometimes the stage is not set quite right, for reasons only the patient understands, and he may hide under the furniture or run around in circles, making fools of us, until Bambi gets him into position to run into the bathroom on his own.

I named him Cubby because he is my littlest and youngest cat; Duccio because I wanted to give him an Italian name and Duccio is one of my favorite painters.

Cubby Duccio has end-stage kidney failure.

Until the beginning of November, Bambi used to give him daily fluids in two-week cycles, and we kept him in the bathroom for the entire period. Although my bathroom is large, clean and comfy, with a big, gated window facing the courtyard, being confined was a sacrifice for such a sociable cat.

I put the stereo/radio Meli had given me as a gift when I moved back to Rome 12 years ago in the bathroom and left it playing soft music to keep Cubby Duccio company at night, when the chatter of neighbors’ voices had disappeared from the courtyard. None of the other cats was happy to spend part of the day locked in with him, although I tried. Usually after the two-week therapy he would be well for 6 to 8 weeks. Then we would start another cycle.

When he was confined to the bathroom, if he was perched high on the windowsill Bambi would stand on the ledge of the tub to give him his therapy. If he felt protected inside his carrier on the floor, she would kneel down and reach her long arms in to inject the fluid.

Cubby D is very affectionate and bears me no ill will. When we let him loose after those two weeks in the bathroom, he always came to me to be cuddled and slept with me for part of the night. He still does.

After those last two weeks of therapy in the bathroom, he went downhill rapidly. His eyes became bigger and rounder, he lost weight, and his back had a pronounced arch.

The sonogram vet delivered the end-stage diagnosis. He gave me the option of checking him into the animal hospital for two or three days of continuous intravenous fluids to see whether this would help or the option this particular vet prefers never to put into words.

The vet in charge of recoveries at the animal hospital kept him five full days but charged me for four. The results of the blood sample drawn the fifth day were considerably better than those of the sample drawn the first day, but they were still off the charts. When the vet discharged him late Sunday afternoon, Cubby Duccio was peppy, but we didn’t know how he would respond once I brought him home. She feared the worst and gave me a prescription for a feline-strength anabolic steroid just in case.

I purchased it but, being a sports fan, I never wanted to give it to him because I know its effect on athletes. In any case, he was happy to be home and has had a good appetite.

A Spanish neighbor, Amparo, cat lover and biology professor, has since told me that one injection of that steroid can kill a cat in just a few weeks.

At that point Bambi started coming every day and, fortunately, most of the time Cubby Duccio runs into the bathroom on his own without drama. Bambi’s ministrations take no more than two minutes and when she has finished he runs out again.

He receives Ringer solution, soluble vitamins and a small dose of a gastro protector for the ulcerous gastritis associated with his condition. Once a week we add one-third of a phial of a homeopathic preparation traditional vets have never heard of.

Bambi is in her late thirties, tall, serious, with a mass of long dark hair and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her thin, wiry frame is hidden under baggy, comfortable work clothes. She has a degree in biology and wanted to be a vet but lacked the means to continue studying. She must receive something like a hundred calls a day on her cell phone, a good percentage from me, but also from other “gattare” who have serious problems to solve.

Bambi is a “gattara,” the Roman term for one of the selfless women who spend their essence, day and night, caring for Rome’s abandoned cats. Sometimes the “gattare” volunteer their services, sometimes they are paid (less than what my cleaning girl makes) for working in cat colonies recognized by the city. Sometimes, with the assistance of the police and health care workers, they rescue hordes of cats (even dozens at a time) on the outskirts of Rome from people who mistreat them and keep them in unspeakable conditions, or from areas where construction or demolition work will destroy their natural habitat.

I know how to measure and draw the fluids for a subcutaneous infusion and how to administer it. But Bambi has a special way with cats and I pay her for her services, which are priceless.

I cannot get Cubby Duccio into the bathroom on my own every day, and sometimes I am unable to insert the butterfly needle under the skin on the first or second try, and this makes him nervous.

The nature of Bambi’s work is physically demanding and she suffers from low blood pressure and migraines. She has many more cats in her apartment than I have and when she wakes up in the morning she may have three or four (15-20 kilos total) sleeping on top of her. This is giving her serious back problems, but where can she put them at night? The cats love her, and she loves them back (no pun intended).

The nature of her mission means she is rarely punctual, so if she tells me she will be arriving at 2:30 PM, I may see her two hours later. If she promises she will arrive by 8:30 PM by 9 or 9:30 PM I have to call her to remind her because she may have forgotten or been delayed by an emergency.

One afternoon last week she told me she would be unable to come that day.

I set the stage anyway and when Checco rang my bell with the delivery, I went up the stairs and repeated the magic words.

Before I opened the door for Checco, I checked. Cubby D was in the tub hiding behind the shower curtain. I closed the bathroom door and took care of Checco. Then I went to give Cubby D his therapy. After half the dose (one full syringe, 60 ml), the butterfly needle fell out and I couldn’t reinsert it properly. He started hissing so I considered myself lucky to have done that much.

A few nights later Bambi did not appear at all. By 11 PM I gave up hope. I set the stage, went outside, rang the bell myself, then came in and made my cheery announcement.

Cubby Duccio is a smart little guy. This time he did not fall for it.

Bambi had a splitting migraine that evening and one of her co-workers at the colony had to drive her home. Why didn’t she call me, I asked when she arrived the next evening. She had forgotten her cell at the colony and my numbers were in the memory. Not the first time this has happened.

Cubby Duccio is a beautiful brown, striped tiger, 7 cat years old, with a delicate triangular face every mother could love, long white whiskers, ears a tad too big and, when he is well, a coat that is velvet to the touch.

I was never planning to take another cat. When I lived in my previous flat in the same neighborhood a horde of cats used to hide out in an abandoned lot behind a rusty corrugated gate. I fed them twice daily.

One rainy afternoon when I went with the food, Amparo was at the gate observing the cats as they arrived in single file. The last one, the runt of the litter, maybe only 6 weeks old, had a pronounced limp in one of his front legs. He was almost skeletal. She told me it was my responsibility to take care of him, just as she took care of hers. I came back the next afternoon with a carrier and as the cats approached I snatched him. It was too late to take him to the vet, but I kept him in the bathroom until the next morning. By then his limp had disappeared. The vet said it was muscular, not a bone.

I nourished him, had him tested for feline AIDS and leukemia and, when he was stronger, it was “ciao” to the balls. Cubby Duccio was mine, the latest and last member of my family.

Before Cubby Duccio was diagnosed with kidney failure almost 18 months ago, I used to marvel at what a big, strong boy he had become. I have two other brown striped males, Tiger and Pisellino, both beautiful fatties. Tiger is actually broader in the beam than me (get CinemaScope to get the picture), and if I glanced at the three of them all cuddled up together I couldn’t tell them apart.

Now Cubby D needs his fluids almost every day. If he misses too many days in a row he might no longer respond, and I will have to cry for another cat lost.

Bambi is his lifeline. His well-being is linked to hers.

Why do I always look my worst in the beauty shop?

Waiting for the dye that has transformed my head into a glossy, greasy dark brown porcupine to work its chemical magic, I leaf through a tabloid featuring photos of the young and the gorgeous: actresses, models, celebrities for a day with bikini-perfect bodies swaying on long-stemmed legs having fun at parties and premieres, or walking hand-in-hand along the beach with their latest paramours.

The glitter doesn’t fool me the way it once might have, but images of youth and a life full of possibility make me wistful.

Thoughts of botox and liposuction cross my mind for a moment but, who am I kidding? Except for the hair, I prefer the natural look.

As Carlo combs me out, I stare into the mirror and see a composite of the dear departed: my mother’s big ears, my daddy’s abdominal hernia poking up under my flowing linen dress, Uncle Velvel’s mass. My hazel eyes do not sparkle back at me. Can that be a reflection of tragic Uncle Sol’s sadness and resignation?

Mafalda, who is quite the cut-up even without a scissors, keeps everyone in the shop in stitches punctuating her endless Italian chatter with dramatic “oh, my Gods” in English. She is not around today to distract me.

What does this session accomplish? It relieves me of my grays for 30 days.

It also makes me ask, yet again, those two big questions. What have I become? Who am I?

When I return next month for another go-round I will be sure to bring a newspaper along. The foibles of Italy’s high-and-mighty described by some of the shrewder pundits always bring a sparkle to my eyes.

I will also look in the mirror.