Rascal Chuck's Adventures at the Philadelphia Museum of Art

     Trust me, we don't take the rascal cat to the museum to have him trash this glorious place. It's my idea to bring him to the museum because I want to expose him to a little culture. Let me make that perfectly clear. 

    But it's a bad idea. Cats and culture don't mix. Usually.

    The Philadelphia Museum of Art is a wondrous sanctuary. With 200 galleries of American, Asian and European art, it is one of the oldest public art museums. 

    If you like Impressionist Art, there are galleries of Monet, Manet, Renoir, Cassatt, Cezanne, and the list goes on. I want to see Monet's The Japanese Footbridge and the Water Lily Pool, Giverny 1899, one of my favorites. When I was in Giverny years ago, I walked across that bridge. Monet, who left hundreds of great paintings behind once said, "My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece."

    This, of course, is lost on Chucky.

    Another popular favorite is Van Gogh's Sunflowers, 1889

    Still, no response from the rascal cat but a yawn. 

    But, don't despair. There are so many wonderful things to see in this museum. Would the cat be impressed by oppulence on the grandest of all grand scales? This museum has actually the entirety of a drawing room that existed circa turn of the century--every stick of furniture, every painting, every knick-knack--on display so we can see how they used to live in the upper crust of society.

    He barely gives it a glance.

    We move on to the next exciting space. A Hindu temple from 1560. A woman, on vacation, saw pieces of a temple lying about in ruins, bought the pieces, transported them back home to her backyard, died and her family donated them to the museum. These pieces were put back together and now exist as a true to life Indian temple people used to worship the gods or for weddings or other reasons to hang out. 

     Chucky gives the temple one sniff and then moves on. 

     But then things dramatically change. We are in one of the Asian Art Galleries, and we finally see something that Chucky might be interested in--a dog cage. But this isn't any dog cage. The rings at the top and bottom of the cage are made of white jade. This cage was designed for a hunting dog who lived in a pavilion of marble floors, slept on silk cushions, and wore silk brocade outfits.

        

    Chucky is staring at the cage.  He then sits up and begins to bounce. Oh, no. I know what that means. He wants to jump in that cage. Somehow he imagines he'll open that door latch and hop in. Live for a brief moment the life of a court dog. 

    "No, no. You can't do that. We're in a--"

    He leaps up. Lands on the grayish area around the cage. And if life were kinder, there wouldn't be a square glass enclosure around the cage that Chucky bumps into. 

    He glances back at me.

    "It's an antique," I try to explain. "The Qing Dynasty. Maybe goes all the way back to 1644."

    He smacks against the glass with his paw. Several times. In defiance.

    I actually feel sorry for the kid as I lift him off and place him back on the cold gray floor. 

    Nothing prepares me for what happens next. We enter into the courtyard of a French cloister that is not enclosed in glass. This is all Chucky needs to see. And smell. There is a fountain with bubbling water in the center. 

    I call out to Dan. "Get him. He's heading for the water."

    We're no match for Chucky when he sets his sights on something. He can move faster than a speeding bullet. And at times he feels more powerful than a locomotive when you reach for him and he jerks himself out of your grasp.

    

    So there he is, perched on the edge of the fountain, tilted just enough so he can drink the water from the fountain. 

    "I don't think he's supposed to do that," I say.

    Dan says, "Just let him be."

    "I only hope he doesn't jump in for a swim." 

    Joke. He hates getting his fur wet. That's the only saving grace. And the fact that although we come close, the rascal cat isn't evicted.

    Visiting the museum is not a complete disaster. We do discover that Chuck can appreciate paintings as long as they're of animals. He stares long and hard. He emits a sigh. 

        

    Finally, at the end he asks if he can have his portrait up there near the monkey. So when we get home, he poses for the camera. What do you think? Should we hire a famous portrait painter to capture the rascal Chuck for all posterity?