Chuck Tramples the Tulips

 

          To celebrate my birthday this past year, Dan, I, and, of course, Chuck decided to stay local, which means we wanted to travel somewhere by car and not plane so we went to Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, for the day. 

        Longwood Gardens began as a Quaker farmstead. Then Pierre S. du Pont (yes, the name sounds familiar because of all the du Pont products his company was responsible for--Lucite, Teflon, Lycra, Orlon, Mylar, Kevlar, Tyvek, and Dacron polyester) bought the property in 1906 and over the years transformed it into one of America's premier gardens. It boasts 200 acres filled with gardens and water fountains, a four acre conservatory, an historic house and the usual Visitor Center with Gift Shop. 

       

 

Of course, no pets are allowed. But Dan and I don't consider Chuck a pet. And, maybe, that's why we get into so much trouble.

        

        Longwood Gardens is open year round, and the garden displays rotate with the seasons. We were there in April. Tulips of all colors and shapes were in abundance. The displays were magnificent. For awhile Chuck seemed content to scamper around with us, sniffing the ground, enjoying the beautiful weather. 

        We know that cats see colors differently than we do. We also know, however, that their sense of smell is way more acute. So what happened next, well, we can only put it down to the fact that Chucky must have smelled something, something that he just couldn't resist. 

     

   

        Let me set the scene. These beautiful tulip displays attract many visitors. But it was late in the afternoon. Most of the visitors were gone and Dan, I and Chuck were basically by ourselves at the end of the tulip section. Everything was calm.

   

        That should have been a clue. A warning. That something was about to go amiss. 

        But, again, we were caught up in the moment. If you've ever been to Longwood Gardens, walked through the conservatory, seen the orchid display or been privy to the hundreds of tulips that were in full bloom, you could understand how we could become mesmerized and lose track. 

    

    Suddenly, the tulips began to dance on their own. They were moving. What the . . . At first, it seemed almost magical. Like in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy passes an apple tree, that comes alive and the branch has an arm and a hand that throws an apple at her. 

        These tulips were moving. I saw it first.

        "Look, Dan, those tulips over there."

        Our wonderful magical thinking lasted only a second. In unison we shouted out, "Chuck."

        Of course, it had to be Chuck. His orange and white fur was suddenly visible among the vibrant yellow tulips.

        Oh my God. This was serious. Chuck was ransacking through the tulips. 

        "You have to go in there and get him. Before he causes any major damage."

        But Dan had already assessed the situation. Carefully picking his way through these magnificent flowers, he stepped on solid ground, reached in and picked up the devil cat child. 

        "What was he thinking?"

        "He's just a cat," Dan said calmly.

        He was right, of course. Like curious George, I had curious Chuck who never for a moment thought that visitors to Longwood Gardens wanted to see healthy vibrant tulips, not ones trampled to death by cat paws.  

        Dan put Chucky on the ground near my feet. Then he went back into the tulip display and fluffed up the tulips Chuck had played havoc with.  See, no damage done.

            "Well, we almost had a perfect day." I sighed.

        "And what fun would that have been," Dan said. 

        Later, in the car on the way back home, I tried to get Chuck to explain why he'd bolted into the tulip patch. He only yawned, put his head on his paw, and fell asleep.

        "At least he didn't say anything about ravens," I said. 

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

        

        

        

Raven Love Leads To Poe

 

     In Virginia, in the oldest house still standing in Richmond, built around 1737, is the Edgar Allen Poe museum. It's an odd choice until you find out that Poe in 1824, as part of a junior honor color guard, escorted the Revolutionary War General Marquis de Lafayette (yes, the famous French guy who fought on our side in the war) around Richmond when he returned to the USA to visit. Poe took Lafayette to that very house and stood guard outside while he stayed there. 

        In 1922 the house was turned into the Poe museum. We discovered that fact when we were in Virginia. Chuck, who hears everything he's not supposed to hear, heard mention of Edgar Allen Poe, was still obsessed with seeing more ravens, and wanted to go to the museum.

        "Really, Chucky? A museum?"

         Dan was against it. He never read a lot of Poe. He's not a horror fan, and all he could think of were the Poe short stories kids read in high school--full of mystery and macabre--The Pit and the Pendulum, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, and The Murders in the Rue Morgue. My favorite was The Tell-Tale Heart where the narrator tries to convince the reader he's committed the perfect crime against an old man he's dismembered in the bathtub and hidden under the floor boards. He swears he's not going insane even as he describes a thumping sound he's convinced is the dead man's beating heart. That was not one of Dan's favorite stories.

        The museum is located in a number of ancient buildings, well-preserved, around a beautiful courtyard called an Enchanted Garden that contains a shrine to the writer. 

        As we walked outside in the Enchanted Garden, we turned and noticed that Poe was watching us from one of the windows.

Nice touch!

        Inside, we wandered around from room to room. We saw the desk he worked at when he was a literary critic.

           We saw the chair he sat on when he did much of his famous writing.

           We were astonished to learn that Poe is so much more than a horror writer.

        "It says here," Dan shares, "that Poe's detective stories, namely The Murders in the Rue Morgue laid the groundwork for all the future detective stories in literature. He created the concept of the eccentric genius who solves crimes."

        "That's cool. You mean Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes is based on Poe's work?"

        But Dan was already on to the next exciting fact. "And Poe also did groundbreaking work in science fiction. Jules Verne wrote a sequel to a novel that Poe wrote."

        I had to admit I was impressed. "So he's known for more than just horror."

        "Not just horror, Kate. Psychological horror and suspense. Alfred Hitchcock credits him with influencing the kind of movies he made."

        Of course, I instantly think of one of my favorites, The Birds.

        "And Poe added 1,178 words to the English language."

        I'm afraid that Dan may begin to list ALL of the words.

        "Get this: Booked. Epilepsy. Finicky. Hysteria. Multicolor. Normality. Pants."

        "Pants? So that words was never used before Poe?"

        "People used to say pantaloons, I guess. Or trousers." He paused briefly. "Awe-sticken. Cul-de-sac. Deathbed."

        "Wow. I believe you. But I don't think you have to list--"

        "Poe also loved cats."

        A bell went off in my head. "Cats?" We were lucky at this museum. Because Poe was a fan of cats, the people who run the museum kept two cats on the premises so adding Chuck to the mix didn't raise any eyebrows. Everyone assumed he was part of the museum staff. 

        Unfortunately, he was nowhere in sight. 

        "We are terrible parents."

        "He's got to be here somewhere."

        Why did this always happen to us? "We have to come up with a better system. Either you have to watch him or I have to watch him."

        "Right."

        "I'll go this way. You go that way."

        My thoughts grew darker. Had Chuck been whisked away by Poe's spirit who was lurking in the museum?

        Two minutes later, I stumbled into one of the many rooms with Poe memorabilia. Chuck was there, by himself, staring at a painting. But not just any painting. A giant raven, obviously done in honor of Poe's most famous poem, hung on the wall. 

        

        "Chuck."

        He let out a slight murmur of response.

        "That raven is not real, Chuck. It's only a painting."

         He didn't seem to care.

         Dan came into the room behind me. "How long has he been sitting here?"

        "Too long." I didn't have the heart to pull the poor love sick boy away. "This is so sad," I whispered. 

         "Not really. Now we know what to get Chucky for Christmas."

         I looked at Dan. At Chuck. At the painting of the raven. "Of course. Dan, you're a genius."

          We had a plan. And so what if this decision meant we were doomed to have a giant Raven painting hanging on a wall in our house? If it made Chuck happy, it was worth it.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

         

          

        

        

        

         

 

         

Chuck Falls For A Raven

            Chuck's obsession with a raven started quite innocently. They are highly intelligent, magnificent coal black birds, made famous by Edgar Allen Poe in his poem, "The Raven." When we were traveling in California, in Yosemite National Park, eating lunch outside one afternoon, minding our own business, a raven flew down out of the sky out of nowhere. That's all Chuck needed to see. 

        I can't call it love at first sight. But there is something that happens when a cat sees a bird. Contrary to the usual carnivorous reaction, Chuck was instantly mesmerized. He, of course, knew the poem, "The Raven," but he'd never seen a real raven before and neither had I.

        The raven landed and Chuck hopped up, abandoning his turkey snack, which was a miracle in itself. 

         "Be nice," I called. I wanted to also call out, "Be careful." Ravens can use their beaks to rip objects open. They are one of the few bird species that can use tools to obtain food and defend themselves. 

          Luckily, the next few moments were magical. Chuck followed the raven, always a few respectful feet behind. When the raven finally flew off, Chuck's obsession began.

     

   Raven this and raven that. He started reciting lines from Poe's famous poem.

        "In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore."

        "Quoth the raven--nevermore."

         What cat talks like that? (I suspect Dan was somehow involved in Chuck's sudden spurt of literary genius.)

        Insanely curious, back at the hotel, Chuck asked Dan to google "raven" and begin to do research. He wanted to know everything there was to know about ravens.

        "Did you know ravens can fly upside down and do somersaults in the air?" Dan asked.

        "No, I did not."

         Chuck sat in rapt attention, listening.

        "Did you know they can sing?"

        "Nope."

        "Did you know they eat almost anything?"

        "Really?"

        "Insects, eggs, seeds, berries--"

         Chuck was nodding. I was imagining a raven gorging himself on my favorite--pumpkin pie. 

        "Ok. I get the picture."

        Dan found a YouTube video that featured raven calls. Caw, caw, caw, caw. He played it once. Twice. 

        The cawing was music to Chucky's ears.

        "Enough about ravens," I said.

        But Chuck wouldn't have it. He wanted to go outside and spot more ravens. 

        "Some people believe they are a sign of bad luck," I said, hoping to discourage Chuck from his increasing mania. "Maybe it's not such a good idea to hang out with--"

         But Dan, seeing Chuck look so forlorn, admitted, "They can also be a sign of good fortune."

           Finally I had to put my foot down. "Chuck, we are NOT adopting a raven. It's a wild bird. That's the end of it."

           But I was so wrong. What I thought was the end turned out to be only the beginning. 

           I'll see you next week with the rest of the story.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

         

         

Rascal Chuck Climbs Palm Tree

          By the time we arrived at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond, Virginia, Chuck, our rascal cat, heaved a giant sigh of relief. As long as we weren't visiting another President's house. As long as he didn't have to get squashed in a backpack for an hour and traipse through rooms looking at furniture. As long as he didn't have to hear another drawn out history lesson . . . he was happy.

        He was going to be spending the day outside. He didn't care that Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden was voted America's #4 top garden. 

            We'd learned early on that Chuck needs to be outside everyday. Regardless of the weather conditions. He doesn't care if it's rain or shine. He walks through mud puddles as easily as he traipses over grass. He hates being cooped up in the house. 

       "I think Chuck has had enough of house tours," Dan said as we snuck Chuck in. We'd already purchased our tickets. 

        Lewis Ginter offers a "garden experience," and they're open most days from 9 until 5. Because we were here at the botanical gardens in mid-November, the grounds--the beautiful gorgeous grounds that contained what seemed to me every kind of plant and flower and tree--were semi-deserted. So we didn't have to worry about Chucky sauntering along beside us. 

        Before we set out, I read Chuck the riot act about good behavior: Don't tramp on the flowers. Don't eat the plants. And whatever you do--don't climb the trees. Look, don't touch. BUT you can smell everything. 

        Chuck is a true explorer. At first he stood at the entrance in amazement, not quite sure where to go. We decided to let him lead the way. Let his nose lead the way. After a few seconds, he took off, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. 

        I wondered whether we should try to tell him what he was examining or just let him go. As we read the tiny signs attached to everything, identifying what we were actually looking at, struggling to make sense of the natural world around us, Chuck was sniffing AND I suspect getting more information than we ever could. 

     

   "Gosh, this is a beautiful place," I announced, but no one was paying much attention. Dan loves to take photos so he was busy clicking away, trying his best to capture everything he saw.  And Chucky, well, he was walking around, sniffing, going under and over and around. Every once in awhile, he would stop and throw himself on the ground and bask in the sun. 

        The leaves on the trees were already turning an autumnal yellow and orange and red. The various gardens were laid out around a lake that shimmered gently in the sun. We followed Chuck who followed paths that seemed to lead around and around. 

          At one point we entered and climbed up to a look-out point where we had a fabulous view of the lake.

        

        

           And then we saw in the distance a glass greenhouse. "We have to go in there." I pointed. "That's where the exotic plants are. It will be pure heaven."

            For the first time in my life, I under exaggerated. This conservatory is an 11,000 square foot complex, filled to the brim with orchids, succulents, and all kinds of tropical plants, including a central Palm house. 

         Chucky started walking in the opposite direction.

         "C'mon, Chuck, this way."

          He grumbled, but he followed.

          "This is a special place. No monkey business. Be very careful with these plants." But was Chuck even listening? 

           These plants deserved special attention. And I have to admit that maybe Dan and I became too absorbed, mesmerized, and too trusting that Chuck would do the right thing when he wasn't under our watchful eye. 

            Too late, maybe twenty-five minutes into our magical tour around this conservatory, I had this sickening feeling in my stomach that something wasn't quite right.

            "Where is he?"

            Dan was totally absorbed, as usual, in capturing the scene in front of him. He has a talent for taking incredible photos. He has the patience to frame the picture and adjust the lighting. I just point and click. 

             "Huh?"

             I'd already started to scan the area. He's not a difficult cat to spot. We had the place all to ourselves. "I can't find Chuck anywhere."

             "He's got to be here . . . "

             But was that necessarily true? The entrance door to the conservatory was closed. But had Chuck found an alternate escape?

            "Chuck,"I called. 

            The important thing is--don't panic. Chuck may have the brain of a two year old, but he has good instincts. Usually. He knows he has a good life with us. We've had many discussions about the terrible travails of being a homeless cat. 

             "Look up."

              I was almost afraid to. Look up? We'd both wandered into the most treasured part of the Lewis Ginter conservatory--where they kept the palm trees. 

               He couldn't be. 

             

     We were standing in front of a full size palm tree. And it was tall. There are over 2500 different species of palm. They can last a century and grow 197 feet high. They have an ancient history. And they are useful trees, yielding palm oil, wood, baskets, wine . . . 

      "Holy Mackerel. What was he thinking?"

       Dan stated the obvious. "We've got a real problem here."

       Somehow Chuck had climbed at least fifteen feet up that palm tree and was resting on one of the branches. 

       "What the heck is he doing up there?"

     "Taking a nap?" Dan never looks concerned over Chuck's behavior. This time was different. "Call his name."

          We have two cats. Chuck and Jack. Jack, believe it or not, comes when he's called. Like clockwork. Like a dog. Chuck does not. Unless there is a snack involved. 

          "Do you have any food on you?"

           I didn't. But I was good at pretending I have food. The magic word was snack.

           "I'm so hungry. I need a SNACK."

            Chuck, who seemed like he was in a trance or was he merely cat-napping, snapped to attention. He lifted his head and  looked down. 

             I repeated the magic word. "SNACK."

             Chuck has an enormous appetite. I crinkled some paper I had in my pocket. Chuck has remarkably good hearing when he wants to use it. 

              He turned himself around and with legs spread wide, like the way you widen your skis when you're skiing down the expert slope, began to slide down the trunk of the palm tree. Only Chuck went down backwards, about a foot at a time, his front paws gripping the palm tree to control his descent, as if he had slid down a thousand times before. 

             It was a sight to see.

             When he reached the bottom, a few feet from the floor, he let go and plunked down at my feet. I almost felt sorry I didn't have a real snack for him. He looked up at me, expecting it. 

               "Okay, here I am, where is it?"

                "Chucky." I held out my empty hands to show him the horrible truth.

                 He shook his head in disgust.

               "All's fair in love and war," I said. And then I picked up this belly boy and gave him a tremendous hug, so thankful he was okay and had made it back to earth alive. 

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.