Theo Horses Around in Vienna

 It's been years since I've visited Vienna. Like a little kid in a candy store, I can't wait to look around and see what I can find. Theo, my gangster cat, is a bit less enthusiastic. Because Vienna is a hustling, bustling place, chocked full of ancient buildings and, perhaps, too many people, he seems intimidated.

I promise him--we'll find something you like. Trust me.

Eagerly I snap photos as we head toward the main part of the city. We pass our first church affectionately called the Mexican Church:

We pass the graffiti building (or at least that's what I call it):

We cross a bridge over a Danube River tributary:

In Vienna proper now, we're on foot, within the Ringstrasse, an elegant 2.5 mile boulevard which encircles the old town. In 1857 this boulevard replaced Vienna's ancient city walls. We cross beneath an old but magnificent arch. Now I'm beginning to feel Vienna's heart:

All of that leads us to our first glimpse of St. Stephan's Church, which took hundreds of years to build from 1137 when they first broke ground to 1578 when it was finally completed. This mixture of both Romanesque and Gothic architecture stands on the ruins of two earlier churches. Over the years it has been the scene of numerous weddings including Joseph Haydn and Mozart. 

I am in awe. If I believed in time travel, standing inside St. Stephan's Church, on ground that's existed for so many centuries, would be the first step in finding a way to travel through time. 

Explaining that idea to Theo, however, is a waste of time. He'll watch something on the History Channel (especially if there are animals in the show) . . . but outside the church he finally looks interested. 

Horses. A white wheeled horse drawn carriage to be precise that is attached to four gorgeous white horses. For tourists who like to imagine that they're back in Mozart's time when people still rode horses and took carriage rides--not for fun but to get somewhere. 

Theo looks up at me expectantly. The driver, who was there one minute ago, is gone for some of that excellent Vienna coffee, so this is our chance, I think. 

"Behave yourself," I caution automatically although how much danger can Theo actually be in when the horses are tied to their carriage. 

Theo approaches cautiously and keeps his distance, at first. But then he can't resist the lure of his fellow animal. His nose twitches. He's sniffing from afar (which will never be good enough).

I know Theo. Sure enough, before I can step in between him and the lovely white horse he's fixated on, Theo is there, standing near the horse's leg, sniffing away. The horse glances down as much as he can, despite the blinders that surround his face.

Who's that? he's probably wondering. Or has he figured everything out already because he can smell Theo. 

Suddenly, I imagine everything going to hell. What if the horse decides he doesn't want some American cat sniffing him, and now even cozying up to him? What if he lifts one of his legs and uses that gigantic hoof to try and kick Theo away? I half imagine Theo flying through the air, like in some cartoon and ending up where--on top of St. Stephan's. 

I reign in my imagination and dread. The encounter is a peaceful one. 

For me, it's a lesson in how the world can be perceived so differently by one person to the next, one person to a cat. Theo sees the horse. I see St. Stephan's, in all its historical magnificence. 

Theo and Pearl's Tadpoles

 As is often the case with Theo, the gangster cat, and historic buildings, he's more interested in the wildlife and the beauties of nature than furniture and the historical ambiance that makes certain places so special. Tucked away in the Bucks County countryside in Pennsylvania, Pearl S. Buck, the renowned author of The Good Earth lived with her publisher husband and adopted children.

The farmhouse they purchased after their marriage was old. They needed to renovate and expand. Acres and acres of luscious farmland surrounded them. They split their time between a townhouse in NYC during the week and their country estate on weekends. They installed all the latest amenities--running water, indoor plumbing, electricity. Near the kitchen a giant bell was rung to call the children in for lunch.

At that time, Bucks County attracted wealthy and famous New Yorkers who wanted to leave the country behind. Musicians, writers and artists surrounded them including Oscar Hammerstein and James Michener.  

I read The Good Earth years ago in college. Buck was born in the USA but grew up in China so she was more than familiar with the culture and mores. Born from Missionary parents, she spent a great deal of her adulthood in China until it became too dangerous to stay. 

I was impressed by the novel, a best-seller which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1932 and then a Nobel Price in 1938 for her keen depictions of Chinese peasant life. Her house and grounds have been preserved. It is now a destination to visit: 

Dan, Theo and I are given a private tour of her house. We're taken from room to room as we learn her story. Her house is an odd mixture of Pennsylvania farmhouse and Chinese artifacts. 

When I visit her house, I'm even more impressed with how she lived her life. She was a fierce advocate for children, especially mixed-race children, who back in the day were often unadoptable. Over the years she and her husband, true to their convictions, filled their house with the children they adopted. She also used her earnings to start a Foster Home, which she located on her property near her own house. 

She didn't live a perfect life. Controversies surrounded her. But what does all this have to do with tadpoles?

Outside on the side of her farmhouse, there is a stream which leads into a small pond with a bridge, the perfect habitat for tadpoles. 

Before Theo expresses an interest, I know little about them. But a quick search on google reveals that they are the hatched darlings of frog eggs. When they hatch, they first feed off of the yolk of their egg and then swim around in search of algae. 

In the initial stage they have a mouth at one end and a tail at the other. In the course of three to four months, they lengthen, grow front and back legs and begin to metamorphose into frogs.

Theo seems to instinctively know the tadpoles are there. He wanders over to the stream, too close for my comfort, and leans in--his keen cat eyes searching the water for any sign of movement. He's ever curious and like a laser beam, spots the tiny fellows darting here and there.

Theo is not a fan of water, but I issue a stern warning anyway: "The tadpoles are not for eating, Theo, only watching."

Can a cat grunt? Approval or disapproval? I hear something, and then his tail wags, slowly at first, and then with greater velocity. 

He's going to jump in. I can feel it. But Dan is one step ahead of me. He's been watching Theo's signs. The stare. The crouch before the leap.

Dan swoops up Theo, says nothing, but shakes his head, confirming there will be no tadpoles for dinner today.

We walk away, across the field, toward the lovely bamboo that lines the edge of their property. Bamboo is an invasive species, not that hard to cultivate, but still I'm impressed. 

As we leave the property, we make one more stop. Pearl S. Buck is buried on her own property. It is a cool, quiet place. She designed her own headstone with one word only--her birth name in Chinese characters. Quite a statement. Even Theo comes over to pay her tribute. 

Despite the tadpole almost incident, Theo's a good boy at heart. He dutifully sniffs the grasses surrounding Buck's grave. He'll no doubt dream of tadpoles tonight.

Theo-The Museum Menace

 We're in Doylestown, PA and it's a long day. Despite the major protestations of Theo, we decide to go to the Michener Art Museum. We explain that Michener, a well-known novelist and short story writer (famous for writing epic stories of foreign lands) purchased local art in the Doylestown area and then built a museum to house it. Ah, the lives of the rich and famous.

But Michener didn't start out as a rich dude. He was a foundling who was adopted and raised as a Quaker. He then made his own fortune. The stuff of novels.

Theo has a ho hum attitude. How much fun can a museum possibly be? I have to agree. I've been to museums that were not impressive. 

Why I like the Michener Museum:

There is a lovely courtyard filled with statues where you can eat your lunch.

Inside the museum, I spy paintings that make you long for the good old days--fill you with nostalgia.

In one of their many rooms, there's a lovely mural, framed like a window with a view, that tricks you into thinking you are looking at a real view. 

Theo stares and doesn't stare. He looks but does he see? Finally, as we're walking through a deserted part of the collection, we let him down to stretch his cat legs. This is our big mistake. One minute he's looking bored, but harmless; the next, he jumps up onto a display. But not any display. A giant cat perches there. Bigger than life-size.

Now Theo is interested. Unfortunately, he's in a museum where there's a firm look but don't touch policy. 

"Theo. Get down from there."

He doesn't.

"Theo. Don't touch that statue."

He is only sniffing.

"Theo, if you knock down that statue . . ." The threat hangs in the air. 

Finally he jumps down and looks at me as if I'm the crazy one. 

"You are exhausting," I tell him.

He wanders away from me and ends up, exhausted himself, on a bench. I join him. There is a lovely face of a sunflower. I can't resist the urge to pose. Yes, this is my exhausted face. 

Dan poses next to a most unusual door.

All in all, the museum is pretty cool.  My opinion, not Theo's.

Theo and Woody the Woodpecker

 We decide on a whim to visit the Peace Valley Park in Pennsylvania and join a weekly guided morning walk that takes us over a bridge, beside a lake and along a trail. You feel as if you're being absorbed into nature. 

Our guide is Kelly, a naturalist. I confide in Theo as we're walking along that I feel as if I'm deaf and blind to the nature that surrounds us. I see it, but I can't really see it. Kelly points to some of the earliest buds that have arrived with spring--lovely pink flowers--that sit on a nearby branch. I would have walked by and missed them.

Kelly points to the tiniest flowers, native flowers, on the ground along the trail that I would have passed by and never noticed. She talks about them--their name, the fact that these perennials bloom around this time every April. 

Mallard ducks swim by us in Galena Lake. We stop, and I have to squint to see them at all. To notice them. They are swimming in the distance. Two or three of them. I hear nothing. I imagine the water is lapping around them as they glide through. 

Way out into the lake, we see what first appear to be only rocks jutting out from the water. And then, with Kelly's guidance, we see turtles sunbathing on the rocks. 

We spot a sun bathing turtle closer by:

 

All the things we don't notice. All the things we don't know. For example, Kelly refers to David Attenborough's (a world famous biologist and natural historian) discovery that in nature plants and insects use different kinds of signals to communicate with each other: chemical signals, electrical signals and even vibrations. For example, a flower will let a bee know whether it has any pollen or nectar available or if the bee should fly by and try another flower. I never knew the flower was telling the bee anything. I assumed it was a hit or miss situation. 

The group moves slowly along. Kelly stops so we can look around us and feel the peace that emanates from the trees. We've been carrying Theo with us, but now he's itching to get down and explore so we let the group of hikers move ahead of us as we deliberately lag behind. 

We are following a trail and give Theo strict instructions to stay on the trail. Do not wander off. As we're explaining to Theo why it's important to respect the forest around us (ie. don't trample on the flowers and plants), sawdust or pieces of bark begin to float down from a nearby tree. 

We look up. I see nothing, but Kelly has doubled back and easily explains that we are witnessing a woodpecker building his home, meticulously widening the hole that he will live in. The floating things in the air are a kind of tree shavings.

As I'm wondering to myself--gosh, is he there--Woody the Woodpecker, Theo leaps from the ground and latches onto the very tree that Woody has claimed as his own. I am astonished that Theo, listening to the conversation, has no trouble spotting the Woodpecker, no trouble deciding that he wants to climb that tree.

"Wait," I cry out.

Theo reaches out his front right paw, eager to hitch his way up. His gaze is laser focused on the top branches. I wonder if Theo can sniff Woody from where he is. With lightning speed Theo advances up the tree--one feet up, two feet up. He pauses.

"Theo, what are you doing?"

Theo doesn't answer. He never answers. Cats have this way of becoming insulated in their world. Once they make a decision, come hell or high water, they are going to follow through.

I used to watch Chuckie do the same thing. He'd be lounging around outside, spot a squirrel, and no matter what happened next . . . if I lunged towards him, called out his name to stop, it was as if he couldn't hear me. 

I pray for a miracle. I have several fears. Theo will engage in a territorial fight with Woody. Or he will climb up, change his mind, and be stuck up there. 

Suddenly, more tree chips float down, seemingly aimed directly at Theo's face. I can't believe what I see--Theo stops and uses his right paw to swipe at his face, his eyes. He blinks several times. Woody has amazingly good aim.

"Theo," I whisper.

He begins his slow descent down the tree--half climbing, half sliding. His front paws hold him in place as he allows himself to slip down. Then he jumps. 

It's at moments like these that I am torn--should I hug him or kill him?

"Theo." I am disappointed in his behavior. But feeling sorry that he's struggling to clean the sawdust out of his eye.

"I only wanted to sniff him, mom." 

Am I being played by a gangster?