Round the Second Curve (By this Counting...)

So today marks la Caterina's and my second wedding anniversary. Or, we've been "together" seven + years, or (if you go back to the very beginning, that is), it is now seventeen years since I met her, and clearly thought, Yes, that one--she's special.

But two years as a married couple, two years in which we have grown together, loved, written, read, defended our various cases in court, read each other's papers and edited, and watched an unholy amount of BBC adaptations of the works of Anthony Trollope. And Downton Abbey. And Call the Midwife. And, of course, Doctor Who.

So the night began in celebration. At her suggestion, we went to Locanda Vini e Ollii, which is, simply, my favorite restaurant in Brooklyn. We feasted on olives, fresh baked bread, home made pasta, a seafood stew in a broth that was out of this world good, and desserts and coffee--all with the unique love of the pleasures of the palate that is this restaurant's hallmark. They welcomed us, and saluted our anniversary dinner, graciously.

And then, of course--because life does this--we had an emergency cat call--one of the Trap-Neuter-Return ladies with whom La C runs the Brooklyn Navy Yard cat colony needed a cat carrier for an injured unneutered feral in Greenpoint. So, fresh from work and dinner, off we went. La Caterina and her colleague and a Joe, volunteer she knew, a middle aged man who has been honored for his volunteer work on behalf of animals, tried to trap the cat, but he'd worked out what was going on, and wasn't having any. As we were about to leave, a worker at a nearby metal shop (or whatever the hell it was--c'mon it was pitch black out there, and my interest in these details was not at its peak) came over and told us that he had found a kitten--an honest-to-goodness little kitten--in the shop, and was afraid it would get hurt in the machinery or in the rat traps. La C and colleague went over with the cat carrier, and Joe and I remained behind.

The feral male came out, knowing it was safe with just us, and ate the food that had been left to entice him. Meanwhile, Joe looked me over, in one of my usual three piece suits.

"You drive a limo?" He asked.

"What?"

"Your job. You a limo driver?"

I didn't, but could have, answered, if that's what it takes.

La C had, meanwhile, picked up the kitten in her hands, and plopped its unresisting little form into the carrier. Her colleague will take it in for medical care, and the process of getting it adopted out will begin.

Me? I just drive the limo.

It's a pretty good gig; I think I'll keep at it.