The neighbor had come over for one of his random talks. He sat down in the kitchen, asked the Babushka for some coffee, and began his long schpiel about pensions in Georgia versus pensions in Greece, and about how houses in Greece are bigger and nicer and he used to have a job there and yadda yadda yadda, followed about more things of which I only understood very little and cared about even less. I was looking at his beard scruff, and watching how there seemed to be a few crumbs stuck in it and wondering if they'll drop soon. And if they drop soon, will they land in the coffee?

He kept beckoning me to sit down, as Georgians get hugely nervous if you're standing and they're sitting. I kept refusing, just to see how long he'd interrupt himself because I was standing. Finally the Babushka appeared from behind me and pulled me into a chair, saying, "Baggada, you're too tall, badabalodaluli."

The Babushka had gone out for a bit, and when she came back in the house, the cat, Patara, darted in and went under the kitchen seat. Patara, which means "small" in Georgian, was a good cat. I have fond memories of how, in the summer when I slept with my window open, she'd sneak across the gas line and jump into my room and snuggle up. Or, now that the dog is dead, how she'd often come up and great me and rub against my legs, purring loudly and possibly trying to kill me as I went down the stairs. I like to jest about hating animals, but I actually really love them (a thing about me is that the more I make fun of something, the more I love it… which is why women end my relationships fairly quickly… people don't actually like being laughed at, who knew?).

Patara on the gas line, sneaking away from my room

Levan continued going on about Greece and passports and whatever. I didn't really know as my attention kept alternating between the cat, the Babushka making attempts at getting the cat and the crumbs in Levan's beard scruff. Occasionally the host daughter would make a noise or attempt to interrupt Levan's droning, and I'd glance over at her, but that was really as far as my attention and comprehension were making it this morning. Finally, the Babushka stood up, now with a plastic bag in hand, saying something that roughly sounded like "blaggababuli daguli maguli cats." Levan, while still talking about the pensions and keeping his green eyes solidly affixed to mine, with one hand scooped up the cat by its neck. He placed the cat in the plastic bag and continued on. "They can pay for such huge houses. And when people have pensions, they can spend more money and buy more houses and get the economy moving." Completely unfazed, unmoving. His arm worked like some sort of hinged arm on a CAT, meanwhile the cat was confused as to what was happening and silent while the Babushka closed the bag, tied it and disappeared. "In Greece they have so many great things…" Levan continued.

"The cat? What are you guys doing with the cat?"

"I once saw these robots there that were controlled by…"

"What the fuck are you guys doing with the cat?"

"… and the women would just sit around and you could talk to them…"

The Babushka came back in the house, minus a cat. I addressed the Babushka, "What did you do with the cat?"

"Blaggadabuli nabatooli dadoodaba."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?" she asked in Russian.

"Right," I responded.

"Bomski is a bad cat, so we gave Patara away. Don't worry, Gvansa is bringing a kitten in later."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?"

"I get what your saying, but I don't I grasp it. Why did you give away the good cat? And why does it matter if Gvansa is bringing a new one? I liked that cat."

"Mishka, Mishka, blagadabooli."

"I don't know how Mishka is involved in this. I don't get that part. I don't know who Mishka is."

"He took the cat," the Babushka said and went back to doing something with the dishes. Meanwhile, Levan hadn't broken his concentration and continued talking about things to do with Greece and how it's better over there. I really don't think Samual L Jackson could have broken that man's concentration.

Later that night, I learned my cat of four years, Caesar Augustus, passed away from a heart attack. All my pets are dying! Possibly being snuffed out by the Babushka! But I can hardly blame Caesar's death on the Babushka. He was a rather fat cat, so he did kind of having it coming. But I'm going to miss that fat bastard.

Caesar about to pounce on Raven, the photographer

RIP Caesar