Giuseppe Stromboli. Ravioli. Buco di Beppo. Joe Pesci III. He went by many names, but most of the time I just called him “small guy”. He was a gangster, a fierce warrior, a dummy, and a total sweetie pie.

He grew up in northern New Jersey, a scrapper, a bruiser. He never really knew his parents, so he was raised by the streets. Living that life, he got into some trouble with some guys who were connected, but he managed to escape and come up to Massachusetts. Old habits die hard though.

The guy had more personality than 80% of actual people I’ve met. He was literally just a dude living in my apartment. He was sociable, would say hi to anyone who came in and charm the pants off of them. He was a hot-head with a loud mouth; we would have full conversations that sometimes turned into arguments. If he wanted something, he would scream at me until I did it. Usually he just wanted me to watch him sit in a new spot he liked, or the opposite, he’d make me sit in a specific spot so he could stare at me from across the room.

He was a proud cat. He walked into every room like he owned it, which for all practical purposes he did. He made demands befitting his stature. But he was also like 1 foot tall and 11 pounds, which made him unintentionally fucking hilarious. There’s nothing funnier than someone who sees themselves as a king even though you could punt them across a football field. He was funny in a lot of little ways. His idiosyncracies, his brashness, his melodrama. If I touched him with my foot he would loudly yell as if I had just kicked him or something. He was so funny, in a very Larry David way. He’d just complain about inconsequential things, and it was always funny what he would choose to fight about.

He was uncharacteristically stubborn. Most cats scatter if you move even slightly. Once Giuseppe picked a spot to sit in, he refused to move and would literally push his entire body weight against you. Every day when I got back from work, he would make me walk around to every closet and open it up so he could go inside and inspect it. He would not eat until we went through this ritual.

What he was stubborn about most of all was how much he loved me. He needed to sit in my lap at all times of the day, regardless of how inconvenient it was. If I was studying, he would yell at me or bite me or start knocking things off the table (what I call a “shakedown”) until I let him sit on me, or he would somehow sit on my chest even though I was fully upright?? He would look up at me and slow blink with the biggest doe eyes, and I’d cradle him like a baby for an hour or two while he roared his engine. If I was in bed, he would ragdoll onto my face, or plant like a rock on my legs.

When I was going through all those medical problems especially he would never leave my side, offering comfort. Every time I came back from the hospital or an operation, he would lick me for an hour. It really hurt but it was so nice. It’s the thought that counts, and he has very few thoughts so that was like 40% of his brain’s GDP.

Also, he was really weird about the color turquoise. He was really upset if I wore my turquoise shirt, he loved my turquoise blanket. Never figured that one out.

Giuseppe Stromboli:

Great cat.

Bad guy.

Sweet himbo.

Rest in peace.

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