As I am reaching the end of one of Chekhov’s stories, and one of the bleakest ones among his many bleak stories, I hear a cat mewing right in front of my front door. It keeps mewing imploringly but insistently. I put the book down and shuffle to the door gingerly. When I open it ajar, I see a scrawny cat crouching just under the threshold. It looks up in fright, and then it dashes down Borgo, following a fat old woman, who waddles down the cobbled street with noticeable difficulty. A large, white plastic bag sways heavily in the woman’s right hand. Judging by all the mewing, the bag contains something that cats can only dream about eating. So as not to attract the old woman’s attention, or frighten the starving cat again, I close the door as gently as I can.