From the Latin: conjunctus: serving to connect; non: to not.
Seven days and counting.
Did I mention that when my Contessa visits, I am not allowed to fondle the favorite blue angora sweater she wears? 
No nose in the cleavage; no lick behind the ear.
I am forced to sit behind bars and enjoy only the odor of the day she’s had, tracing her path in an olfactory fashion: the macelleria on her fingers, smoke from the corner bar downwind, a pause to test, with a single touch of her fingernail, the freshness of the day’s catch displayed in Campo di Fiori.
It’s like smelling porchetta atop the impossibility of a tall table. My stomach turns as the ineviability of denial sinks in. 
And I hate the postman more.
The wag in my tail fades into a low poise. 
Dreams of a warm hug and tasty treat vanish as my Contessa dabs one eye, bids me “Ciao”, and slips through the door to freedom.
Chow, indeed.
The View from Down Here 