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.
