The Inspiration Behind the Blog

I was born to be a writer. When I published my first novel Wild Point Island, my orange and white rescued feral tabby Chuck decided he wanted to travel and see the island for himself. Chuck's desire to travel inspired me to begin the blog and take Chuck with me whenever I traveled, which I do frequently. This was not an easy task. First, I had to deflate the poor kid of all air, stuff him in my carry-on bag, remember to bring my portable pump, and when I arrive, I pump him back up. Ouch. He got used to it and always was ready to pull out his passport and go. Now it's Theo's turn. Smart. Curious. And, yes, another rascal.

Showing posts with label presents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label presents. Show all posts

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Chuck Meets Santa





I love Christmas. The singing of carols, the wrapping of presents, the decorations, the hustle and bustle in the stores, the back and forth texting with all my sisters and brothers trying to sort out the menu on Christmas day--all of it.

But this year, as the days ticked by, I dreaded the coming of Christmas day--knowing that Santa wouldn’t have arrived and my Chuck would be disappointed. The man in the red suit wouldn’t have slid down our chimney. Chuck’s present wouldn’t have been deposited underneath the Christmas tree. Chuckie wouldn’t have experienced that moment that all kids love--when they could rip the wrapping off their present and get to the good stuff.

Yes, dread sat on my chest like a hundred pound gorilla.

Chuck was hoping for a box full of cat treats--Temptations--to be exact.

Every night Bob said, “Tell the kid the truth.”

But I couldn’t.

Maybe I wanted to believe that somehow Santa would arrive. That somehow Chuck’s faith in Santa would make it happen.

Crazy right?

And then Christmas Eve was upon us, and Chuck could hardly contain his excitement, confident that Santa was on his way.

I went to bed that night with a heavy heart.

Chuck camped out underneath the tree, determined to stay awake and wait for Santa to arrive with his present.

I tossed and turned in bed, but finally nodded off.

The next morning--Christmas morning--I awoke at the crack of dawn, anxious to see how Chuck was handling his disappointment. I crept down the stairs and into the great room where we have our tree. Chuck was fast asleep, sprawled on top of a large box. Strange, I thought, there weren’t any presents left unopened under the tree last night. We had already opened all of them.

Bob was behind me. “Did you put a present there for Chuck?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I thought you did.”

I tiptoed across the room toward the tree. The wrapping paper didn’t look familiar. Crouching, I stared at the gift tag on the present. In bold letters, someone had printed “Chuck”.

At that very moment, Chuck opened one eye.

“Merry Christmas, Chuckie.” And then I studied him closely. He didn’t look sad or depressed. Or disappointed.

Dare I say it?

“Is that box for you?”

Chuck didn’t answer, but it took him less than a minute to unwrap the present and open the box. Well, there was no doubt this box was from Santa. The box was filled with bags of Temptations. Chuckie’s favorite treat.

Was it possible?

I turned to Bob.

He shrugged.

I mouthed “Santa”?

“Who else?” he said.

“So, Chuckie, you actually got a chance to meet Santa. What did you think? Did he say anything to you? Did you see the reindeer?”

But the Chuckster wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to get one of the bags of treats open. After all, the kid was hungry. And how could he resist all those bags of Temptations?

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Chuck Lies In Wait for Santa





“T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house . . .”

I made a big mistake in reading Chuck that poem.

When he heard the tale of how Santa makes the rounds of houses and doles out goodies to good little boys and girls and CATS, of course, he became determined to wait, under our Christmas tree, for Santa’s arrival. Convinced that Santa’s gift to him was going to be, well, STUPENDOUS.

After all, wasn’t he the most wonderful cat in the whole wide world?

I hated to break Chuckie’s bubble, as they say.

I hated to tell the Chuckster the truth that Santa and giving gifts was more of an idea--a fantasy--a symbol of how we should all be generous--not just during the holiday season but all the time. Well, you get the picture.

Frankly, for as smart as Chuck is, I couldn’t quite believe that he believed that some guy would be stuffing himself down our chimney and delivering gifts on Christmas Eve.

Well, Chuck, of course, didn’t believe that part. He had already seen through that ruse and realized that Santa started out from the North Pole on December 1. After all, the whole wide world is a big place and those reindeer can travel only so far on any given evening.

So, imagine my Chuck, with Ella--his twin sister by his side--snuggled under the Christmas tree, night after night, waiting for Santa to arrive. Imagine him waiting in breathless anticipation for the man in the red suit with the long white beard.

“What are we going to do?” I asked my husband, confident that Santa wasn’t going to arrive on schedule, as the belly boy believed.

“Tell him the truth.”

“I can’t do that.”

“He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

Was there some way to avoid the inevitable?

I decided to have a heart to heart with Chuckie. I took him upstairs to my writing room. He often sits on my lap while I’m working.

“Chuck, the holiday season isn’t all about presents. It’s about being thankful for what you already have.”

The kid eyed me suspiciously.

“For example, when you were born, you were homeless. But you were lucky to find a home with us. You and Ella. And your two brothers were also adopted. And now you live in a nice house and . . .”

The squirming started. When Chuck is bored, he begins to squirm. Big time.

I decided to try another tact, realizing there was no way that I could tell the truth about Santa or the lack of his physical existence in this modern world.

“The truth is, Chuck, you will never see Santa. He only arrives when you are fast asleep. I’ve known kids to try to stay awake, but they can’t.”

He jumped off my lap then and scooted down the stairs.

I followed.

There he sat vigil underneath the Christmas tree.

“Chuck, that’s what I call being too stubborn for your own darned good--”

“Leave him alone,” my husband said. “Maybe Santa is coming after all.”

I shot my husband one of my famous looks of exasperation.

My Chuckie wanted to meet Santa. See Santa with his own two eyes. How the heck was I going to arrange that?

Years ago one of my brothers dressed up as Santa, but there was no way he was sliding down our chimney. And not for a cat!

I did not want to see the kid disappointed.

Talk about pressure.

“Well, you have one week to come up with a fake Santa that will fool your cat. One week. One week before Chuck learns there is no Santa . . .”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .