Spring is Sung

The antarctic winds have once again subsided and spring surrounds me. This morning on my way home I felt the warm sun on my skin, I heard the birds chirping, I smelled roses, and I saw two Seniors fooling around in a corner behind the community center. Well maybe the old folk's public display of affection--boy were they getting it on--had nothing to do with spring, but they gave me hope for when I reach what  in Spain they call "La Tercera Edad."  However, I am having a hard time imagining Mark and me involved in any public hanky-panky, but it is nice to know that there are those who remain young at heart.
Today I tried to recall La Primavera en España.  I think that since the winters of Southern Spain are so mild and sunny, I never longed for those perfect spring days.  I know they existed, and I fondly  remember sitting on the plaza in the evening, enjoying the smell of orange blossoms. We would joke about enjoying the days while we could, because the sweltering heat of summer was just around the corner.
Spring in Utrera did not bring the blustery antarctic winds, but it did bring a howl of a different sort.  The landlord's son and his girlfriend lived in a tiny roof-top studio above us.  The place was so small that when they decided to adopt a street kitten, they couldn't take her inside with them, so she had reign of the roof top.  I didn't mind; she would keep me company while I hung out my clothes on the solar dryer.  Maybe I should say I didn't mind until the little girl grew up and went into heat.  The first night it happened I thought she was dying. I had never heard anything like it.  Our bedroom window was on a light shaft and her painful cries would echo throughout the building.
After a couple of nights of not sleeping I went up and had a talk with el Niño.  I wanted to find out if he planned to get Chiva fixed, because there was no way I could go through week long relentless meowing every month.  He told me not to worry because he had talked to the Vet, and that she would quickly out grow this condition.  Hmmmm, I wasn't so sure I believed him.
By the third month of suffering from kitty's perpetual screaming meow, I threatened to go have a talk with Daddy.  Oh, no no no, Diego assured me that he had an appointment with the vet and was having her fixed the next  week.
Unfortunately, four weeks later, I was informed that they hadn't had time to make the last appointment, but they had another one scheduled for the following Tuesday.
The following month I was greeted with silent nights--or at least silent as far as the cat was concerned.  We were no longer tormented by Chiva's constant wail from above.  Instead, as the nights grew warmer, all the local borrachos would party in the street in front of our flat--providing us with a cacaphony of drunken hoots and hollers.
For over nine months Chiva was quiet.  I always wondered how it was that she had never showed signs of having been fixed, and that she had no scars.  Well nine months later my questions were answered, as she once again entered celos.  Apparently, spring was upon us, and la gatita was letting us know--all night long.  At this point I skipped the talk with Jr. and went straight to Dad.  Actually Dad wasn't around, and Mom was surprised to hear that we had a cat living on our roof.   To this day I do not know what transpired from that conversation.  Our spring was spent on the road, and before we knew it the cat nights of spring had turned to the dog days of summer.  As the seasons changed, Mark and I packed our home and headed off to a new country leaving Chiva's cries as a distant memory.