About the same time eight years ago, our neighbour’s cat Birichina—Biri, or Birri, or Billie, or Billy—let’s take the last one, Billy—was pregnant. Our neighbour was in south Italy. Five kittens were born—in our home. Two months later, all five kittens found their own families. The families altogether then became a big family, called Billy Family. Billy Family gathers from time to time (without the cats), and the day we found the three kittens was one of them—this time in our home. After the party, me and Yoko felt tired and said, “let’s have a walk.” So there we went.

Oh yes we are talking about Shit Rain. During the naming of one of Billy’s boy, because he was born in a Chinese family in an Italian mountain and he’s as ginger as a tiger, our linguistic friends Kim and Jack tried to name him Mountain Tiger—in Chinese. They learned and practiced and finally decided to pronounced it to their phone, to see if the phone can translate it back to Mountain Tiger in English—I told you they are linguistic friends. And their phone understood the Chinese they had just said, in English, was not Mountain Tiger, but Shit Rain.

But we never thought we would see in our life, a real shit rain, until Shit Rain shitted all over the nest we made for them, on the walls, on the blanket, on the other two, and on herself.

She’s one of a kind.