Chuck and His Journey to the AfterLife

        What do you do with a cat who has a crazy idea? The rascal cat somehow got it in his head that if he climbed on board an Egyptian solar boat, built and buried for the pharaohs thousands of years ago and now rebuilt and put on display, he could be transported to paradise.

      Yes, that paradise--the afterlife, the land of milk and honey where life is beautiful all the time. 

      I knew that Chuck's misconception was the result of half listening as Dan and I discussed whether we should or shouldn't stop and see this amazing boat. We were in Giza, and after we passed the luscious looking Sphinx, whose sole purpose was to guard all the pyramids:

 it was a hop, skip and jump to reach the Solar Boat Museum. We were only trying to figure out what the archaeologists actually believed was true about this boat.

      The debate centers on whether the boat was built and buried near where the pharaoh was buried BUT was only meant to be symbolic--a way that the pharaoh would ascend to the heavens, after death, to be with his father. OR was the boat built to be actually used during the funeral to move the body of the pharaoh in the river to the pyramid, where he was buried. 

     Some scholars claim there was evidence the boat had been in water. Other experts point to the fact that shavings of cedar and acacia found in the pit where it was buried indicate it was located near where the pyramids were.

     To further complicate the matter, the boat was the right size to serve as a river craft, but a mast was never found. 

      Chucky doesn't care about any of these arguments. He latches on to one fact and one fact only. The pharaoh used this boat to get to paradise. 

       We are walking along the side area that is set up for visitors to view the assembled boat, which is massive. You have to figure the boat was built for a pharaoh. The pyramids were gigantic. The boat would have to be super sized too. 

        There are a few people around, but not many. This is not a very popular exhibit. Chucky is itching to get down, but we're nervous that if we let him loose, he'll actually make a jump for the boat. 

        The kid always has had a super active imagination. 

        Dan tries to assuage my anxieties. "Chuck is very pragmatic. He's not going to make a jump for it. He'd never make it and most likely plunge to his death. He'll just stare at that boat for awhile. He'll reach his own conclusion."

        I'm not as confident. We're talking about a kid who's climbed a palm tree. Who climbed into a space capsule. 

        Dan is in the process of setting Chuck down. My heart is beating furiously. I wedge my body between Chuck and the boat. I have to think of something to say to him to convince him that getting on that boat is a bad idea. I need a powerful argument. 

        Chucky is leaning to the right to look around me. He is clearly fascinated with this boat.  Is he dreaming of his journey to the afterlife?  

        I decide in a last minute desperate attempt to keep my cat alive that I will go along with this ridiculous idea.

       "O.K. Chuck, but, just know. There's no coming back. You'll never see me or dad or Jack (his brother) again."

        Chucky shrugs.

        "O.K. You'll never get another . . . snack again." I put on a very sad face. 

        Dan echoes my statement. "Not another snack again."

        I repeat. "No more snacks."

       And then I do, what I think I'll never do, I step aside. 

        Chucky walks to the edge and stares at the boat. Then he turns and comes back to us. He doesn't say a word. I heave a sigh of relief. 

        Dan says, "I think he should get two snacks when we get home."

        "Absolutely," I agree. I pick up this rascal cat and give him a big hug. 

        It's only later, as I mull over the facts of the incident, that I ask Dan in the car going back to the hotel, "Do you think he really was going to jump or was he just playing us?"

       

        

        

Chuck and his Devil Spirit

          

    When we left off last week . . . we were in a heck of a predicament! Was the photo of Chuck evidence that he'd been taken over by some kind of devil spirit? 

       I stare at the photo carefully then look back at Chucky. 

     He looks the same as always in person, but in the photo, he looks different. 

     Dan makes the connection first. "You don't think something happened to Chucky when he went down with us into the pyramid, do you?"

     I don't want to believe it. "No . . . that's impossible. Besides, there was nothing down there. And nothing happened to us. Well, nothing much."

     I don't want to remember the climbing into the pyramid experience. What seemed like a good idea at the time--getting a once in a lifetime opportunity to climb into a pyramid--turned out to be a bit more arduous than we imagined.

     Pyramids abound in the Sahara Desert in Giza. Centuries ago, before they were "tampered with"--cleaned out, robbed, etc., they were not only the tombs of the ancient pharoahs but also the repository of their treasure. Nowadays, of course, they are empty shells. Still, they have an allure that's hard to pass up, and after our camel ride, we decide to grab an opportunity and climb into a pyramid.

     We form a plan. Dan will take Chuck, stuffed into his backpack, hoisted on his back. I'll go first. 

     To access this particular pyramid, you have to go in from the top and then climb down approximately 300 narrow steps in the relatively pitch blackness. 

      To get to the top, you climb on a rickety metal stair that leans against the pyramid. In some places the stair has no railing. As you navigate each step, higher and higher, it's a good idea not to look down. If you slip and fall, it would be the equivalent of falling off the roof of a very tall house, or, perhaps, a small hotel. The stairs are also slippery. 

      Surprisingly, I have little trouble navigating this part of the journey. There's a gentle desert breeze blowing. No problem. But Dan doesn't like heights. In fact, he might even have acrophobia, a fear of heights. For him, the higher we go, the more uncomfortable he feels. 

     "You can do it," I tell him.

      He's not really listening. Breathing hard. He stops, and I figure--this is it. He'll be stuck on this metal ladder thing forever. But, no, eventually he moves forward. Slowly.

        When we get to the top, we have to turn ourselves around and enter backwards. Literally, we squeeze ourselves through the opening to a small landing. Then we begin to climb down the steps. It's dark and stale smelling. There are small lights positioned every 10 steps or so, but all they do is create shadows. 

        This is the worst part for me because I'm claustrophobic. I close my eyes and begin to count--anything to take my mind off of where I am and what I'm doing. Don't think about what could go wrong, ie. do pyramids ever self implode? or what if one of us sprains an ankle? 

      Meanwhile, Dan is doing great inside the pyramid. He's literally flying down the steps, singing a happy song. No problem. 

      We reach the bottom. Chucky is bouncing around, sniffing everything. Even though there is basically nothing here. I mean nothing. It'a big empty room. Who's idea was this? I'm thinking. 

       Then, of course, as we're marveling at the sheer notion that we are actually inside a pyramid, Chuck disappears. 

        Luckily, cell phones have flashlights, and we're able to track him down within minutes. He's wandered off to an adjacent room, climbed onto a shelf, and somehow managed to squeeze himself into an area about half his size.  His sticking out tail gives him away. When he hears his name, he turns himself around.

        BUT when we call for him, he won't come out.

        When we reach for him, he backs up so we can't reach him.

      I open my backpack. "Maybe Chucky wants a snack."

         Chucky's ears tilt forward.  

         I hold out the tidbit, and the standoff is over.

         "Too much stimulation," I say. "We need to go home."    

        Getting out of the pyramid is just as arduous. Climbing up 300 narrow steps in semi-complete darkness while you feel the walls closing in is no picnic. Dan sails up the steps, humming while Chucky say nothing. 

         Outside, with the wind at my back, I climb down the rickety metal staircase to the sand below. Dan and Chuck CRAWL down. 

          Chucky is very quiet on the way back to the hotel as our van maneuvers in between camels, vans and pedestrians. 

        We go swimming in our beautiful built in pool while Chucky watches us from the window of our hotel room. 

         I take a selfie.

     That's when I snap Chucky's photo. The photo where Chucky doesn't quite look like himself.  Where he looks like he's been taken over by some ancient Egyptian devil spirit.

          And that's when I begin to put two and two together. In those few moments when he was out of our sight. In that adjacent cubby hole type room. Did something happen? 

         "What should we do?" 

          Dan is always the voice of reason. "We'll go to dinner, and google how to deal with ancient Egyptian spirits when we get back."

         But there is no need. When we return, the rascal cat is sleeping peacefully. Snoozing. Purring up a storm. We can tell the crisis is averted. 

        Chucky may be a rascal, but he's no devil! 

             

            

             

          

    

Rascal Chuck Rides a Camel in Egypt

                 A few months ago my sisters and I and Chuck, the rascal cat, visited a small zoo in Pennsylvania. Much to our surprise, they had camels—an animal you don’t usually see except, of course, if you’re in Egypt.            

            In fact, Chuck’s obsession with camels actually started in Giza, Egypt—the first time he came face to face with a camel and decided that he just had to ride one.

            Now, cats have a long-revered history in Egypt. Dating back to the Egyptian gods (one god was depicted with the head of a cat) and the Pharoahs who valued cats for protecting them (in one case killing a venomous snake), you can find evidence that Egyptians loved cats. For example, there are cat skeletons in pyramids with small pots that most likely contained milk for the cats. You can also find mummified cats, amulets with cat heads, murals of cats showing them as part of everyday life, cat statues, and even cat cemeteries. I can go on and on.

            The upshot of all of this is that Dan and I are not concerned in the least that we're bringing a cat into Egypt. We figure the Egyptians will be thrilled, and Chuck will be treated like royalty. After all, he is a very special cat. The Egyptians will certainly be able to see that. Right?

          Full disclosure: When Chuck first mentions wanting a camel ride when we're still back in the USA, it sounds farfetched. When we're sitting in our hotel room in Giza, gazing out at the pyramids, it's quite easy to schedule one. Now this will be my first camel ride. Since Dan grew up in Egypt, he's an old pro. Chuck finds nothing unusual about wanting to ride a camel, whatsoever.

           Take it from me.  The desert in Egypt is a surreal experience. Close your eyes and imagine you're in a scene from Lawrence of Arabia. There's sand, of course, everywhere. Pyramids stand majestically in the distance. Camels laze around complacently, waiting for the typical tourist to arrive so they can do their thing. 

            Our guide wears a long flowing green robe, a smartly styled mosaic scarf, and modern reflective sunglasses. He greets us, never blinking an eye that Chuck wants to ride, too.  How many camels--he wants to  know. I expect him to ask if we want the standard, deluxe or super deluxe camel ride, but, no, he is a serious guide, and there's no funny business.

        Camels are big. I have the same sensation mounting the camel that I do whenever I get on top of a horse. It's something I want to do, but when I'm right there in the moment, that horse . . . that camel is big and the seat looks very far off the ground. Somehow I manage to get myself on top of the camel while Dan holds Chucky. 

        Dan tries to hand Chucky up to me, but I need a minute. The view looks different on top of a camel. Suddenly, frantic thoughts besiege me--falling off the camel thoughts, dropping Chucky thoughts. 

        "Okay." 

    

         Dan tries again, but this time, Chucky is the reluctant one. He wiggles around. 

          Our guide immediately steps forward. "Maybe he wants his own camel." He's about to wave his friend over, who just happens to have a spare camel lounging around.

           I look at Dan, and he looks at me. We don't say a word to each other. We're each too busy imagining what that would be like-- Chucky, holding the reins as he marches across the Sahara Desert on a camel.

        Suddenly, a brainstorm: "Let Chuck sniff the camel."

        I should know my cat better. Humans need to see their environment. "Let me see it," we say. Cats needs to sniff. They can get a world of information when they inhale. 

        The rest is easy. Chucky sits in my lap. Dan mounts his camel. We are off.

         If you're curious, riding a camel is a bit like trying to sit on top of a seat that goes up and down and sideways at the same time. I wouldn't try to drink a cup of coffee while I was riding a camel  or shoot a photo. But you can look around and see the scenery. And if you have an overweight cat in your lap, he'll stay there, his face jutting out stoically to the Sahara wind. Sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.

       Later, back in our hotel room, I say to my not too spoiled cat, "Do you realize how spoiled you are??"

        But Chucky, always up to something, usually rascally, poses in a nearby window. I snap his photo. 

         "Gosh darn," I say to Dan, "doesn't he look just like an Egyptian cat?"

           "With those black eyes," Dan says back, "he looks more like he's been taken over by the d----"

            To be continued . . .