Post the First: Ruminations on Matters Bovine

Writer's note: I'm not happy with this title. I wanted to say "Ruminations on Matters Taurine" as taurine seemed a more apt adjective to discuss bull-ish things but as taurine is, in fact, a two-aminoethanesulfonic acid, bovine it is.*

A recap?

After a two-week hiatus Cat in Rabat has thus been transmogrified or better yet, reincarnated (this sets the feline clock back to Life #1) into an alter ego more sympathetic to her surroundings. Gone is the head scarf and in its place, an appropriately and equally terrifying (in my eyes) head scarf habit. It seems that Cat is not losing her religion but exchanging one for the other: although it's been two blessed weeks since I've been awoken by the neighbourhood muezzin's call to prayer, my slumbers have been jostled by nocturnal church bells. Between the two ... well, I'll just keep my comments to myself.

And as most habits are hard to break, I can make no promises on the quality or general level of snarkiness cultivated in this blog. Indeed, I was reluctant to continue blogging for a number of reasons, one of which was that I doubted Madrid would keep me an honest a snarky cat. How can I possibly be a snark in Madrid? I asked myself. Only time will tell.

But what's with the matador? you ask. Or wonder. Or perhaps didn't even notice at all. The killer of bulls whom you see above is (or was) Rafael Gómez Ortega - known as El Gallo, or the Rooster. The Rooster, who came from a fairly illustrious family of bull-killers, enjoyed his share of fame in the teens of the 20th century - he developed several unique moves including fighting a bull from a chair. Why he was never dubbed El Tonto (the Idiot), god only knows. He ultimately squandered his fortune and was supported into his dotage by fellow bull-slayer Juan Belmonte, arguably the greatest killer of unarmed ruminants in the world.

But what's with the matador? you ask. Or wonder. Or perhaps didn't even notice at all. It seems that the apartment in which Mr. Cat in Rabat Señor Gato Gringo and I now reside was once his home. There's a pretty little ceramic plaque outside our building advising us as much. Like many fin de siècle apartment buildings in Europe, each floor was once a private - and presumably sumptuous - dwelling and has since been subdivided into a warren of teeny-weeny flats. I like to think that our apartment was once his bathroom, the room where El Tonto The Rooster used to wash bits of bull gore and blood from his holey-er than thou body.

And on a not very somewhat related note, it was announced this week that Televisión Española had - without consulting the union of bull-killers - cravenly (according to the union of bull-killers) decided to pull its live coverage of bullfights, ending a 59 year old run of televised death. It seems likely that viewership is down or, to put it another way, bullfighting fans are aging. Now if you are an aficionado of the corrida, or you're just over 65 years old, fear not: there's still plenty of cable coverage to satisfy your bloodlust.

So there you have it. Two vegetarians living in the house of one of Spain's beloved bull-killers. Rather ironic, no? Undoubtedly a suitably skewy way to begin our next incarnation. Perhaps Madrid - like Barcelona did three years ago - will one day declare itself a bullfighting free city. Ahhh, I had to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes as I typed that.

*I happily sit corrected. Kudos to Monsieur Mike for validating my gut-reaction in vocabulary. The title of this blog should therefore be Post the First: Ruminations on Matters Taurine.