My husband and I followed a wall with ivy snaking along each brick until it dipped gradually down, revealing Sorrento a thousand feet below. Through a line of trees, the setting sun glinted gold on the bay. I inhaled, trying to harness the moment.
At the end of the path, the foliage gave way to a quaint village. We strolled the cobblestone streets, glancing in shop windows and observing the community. Locals greeted one another, conversing without a glance at a phone or watch.
We approached a storefront window with shelves of Limoncello in artistic glass containers, the neon liquid highlighting the dim backdrop. Close to the doorway, a long-haired black dog rested his muzzle on the curb with a calico cat snuggled into him, black fur cascading over her like a blanket. The final pack member, a cute Chow mix with a toothy grin, stood expectantly with his front paws at the door jamb, his tail flailing.
Although the door was wide open, no animal entered, as if a magic spell shrouded the place.
We petted each furry head before walking in. My heart tugged as it always does when meeting homeless animals. We smiled wistfully at one another.
A young woman in an apron and bouncy ponytail greeted us. I inquired about the Limoncello in a bottle shaped like a cello (I’ve always been a sucker for a good pun). She took it down from the shelf and handed it to me.
“Is that your dog?” My husband motioned to the Chow.
She shook her head. “No, no.” She gestured her hands in a circular motion and said something in Italian, then translated: “He is all our dog.” Her arms went wide, indicating the street front. “Bruno,” she said, pointing to the smiling mutt. “Buio, and cat is Bella.”
She spoke to Bruno in Italian and his tail picked up speed. I motioned to the Limoncello in my hands. “Quanto costa?”
She put up one finger, a question on her face, and walked to the rear of the store. We heard her speak to another woman before she returned with a bowl in hand.
“17 Euro,” she said. Then, she scooched passed us and walked out to the street. All the animals stood at attention. “Bruno! Buio!” The little pack followed to where she was scattering meat from the bowl.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “There’s going to be a brawl.”
We watched intently as Bruno stayed back, tail still wagging, while Buio nibbled bits of meat and Bella nosed at it. When Buio had gotten his fair share, he stepped aside and Bruno finished up.
This selflessness baffled me.
The young woman smiled at us as she came back to the doorway. “Bella!” she called. The cat came running, entering the store as if the spell had been broken. She jumped up on a nearby shelf and devoured an open can of tuna while I paid at the counter.
As I slipped the Limoncello in my bag, a choir of voices rose up behind us. Even in Italian, I immediately recognized it as a Catholic hymn. Eight priests, dressed in maroon robes, led a group of congregation workers and townspeople, some holding books of prayer or giant wooden crosses while others held torches. They walked methodically, singing as they made their way down the long narrow street to a stone church.
“Night mass,” the young lady said.
“Every night?” I asked.
She nodded and gave a little wave. “Ciao.”
“Ciao,” we echoed.
As we returned to the walking path, we spied Buio, Bella, and old Bruno making their way to the next storefront. An elderly couple welcomed them, chatting with the pack like they were old friends. Bruno smiled. The man stepped back into the restaurant and returned with a plate of food.
I glanced back at the scene, wondering if this isolated haven represented what the world was capable of.
