I’ve been written quite often about mothers recently: crabby mothers, Olympic athletes’ mothers, moms at the Olympics. Maybe some of you have even thought that I was hit by a desire for motherhood, since I’ve just reached the threshold of 28 years.  Think again.

Last weekend I took advantage of an unexpected not-working bank holiday and a beautiful sunny day for a quick tour through the timeless wonders of Rome. I pushed my journey mates – partner, sister, future-brother-in-law, a friend and my dog – for stopping and viewing Torre Argentina’s archaeological site. This place is quite renown because is located in the very centre of Torre Agentina Square and is also famous for being populated by a large colony of street cats.
And then the nightmare began.

A black cat without a tail managed to pull its paw through the tight net of a gate and deadly scratched my dog’s eye. I was there, leading my dog on a leash, yet I totally didn’t realise what was going on. Actually even the dog didn’t notice the cat so he couldn’t defend himself. I know that my dog didn’t see the cat approaching because he loves cats and once he spots one he always catches their attention with leaps and vocalisations.

On the contrary, this time neither of us saw the cat, who probably thought that the dog was a regardless enemy, then it attacked him apparently for no reason.

I could only see the moment when the cat grabbed the dog’s eye, puncturing his cornea. My clothes got filled with water from my dog’s cornea. From that point I realised I’m too young – mentally speaking – to be a mother.

Right after the accident I had a bad panic attack, I’m not ashamed to admit it. I do not exactly remember to whom I handed the leash and – for the record – the dog didn’t yep at all. I had to sit on a bench and try to calm down. I recall I was hyperventilating, everything was so blurred and with no sense. I can’t remember the time when I sat down on that bench. I felt my legs and breath missing. And I swear, I swear so loudly I guess even that people at the Colosseo had heard me.
Luckily the other guys were with me – my soon to be brother-in-law especially. He’s a volunteer paramedic so he had enough cold blood to give my dog’s eye a quick look and figured  that we had to step in.

Then we had a crazy run along Via del Corso towards the subway, to reach the car parked outside the historical centre (it looked like an endless journey, man) and then we hit the road to the closest veterinary clinic open on Sundays, on Via Flaminia.
The only thing I was able to think in that moment was the pain that the dog was feeling because of my carelessness, plus the fact that we had to reach the vet clinic pretty quickly. Via del Corso was so packed of people and I was so desperate that I started to muscle our way splitting people here and there, like a rude traffic cop. Or an American football player. I was moving forward so fast that the rest of the gang couldn’t keep my pace.

The dog eventually seems to feel better, his cornea is still sore and there is a small ulcer that we are dealing with 4 different eyedrops and a very precise timing of giving, as the vet told us. He did not lose his eye, but that is definitely not my credit.

I can rationally understand that the accident was not my fault, but my instinct tells me an endless series of ‘I could’ and ‘I should’. The reaction I had after my dog’s accident is not a sign of maturity. If it had happened to my son instead to my dog, being alone with him, what would I have done?
I feel sorry for my boyfriend, but a lot of water must pass under the bridge before procreating.