Chuck or Mico--Be Still My Heart

     Okay. I'm not crazy. I know that my beloved Chuck, the official rascal cat of this blog, passed away a few months ago. He had an inoperable tumor. I was there when they put him to sleep. There are so many moments when I remember those final weeks and months. He wasn't his usual self. He had trouble climbing the stairs. He slept more than usual. He was eating less. All signs that he was slowly getting weaker. 

Chuck in his better days

     I've lived with a lot of cats. They each had a different personality. Like people, some are more lovable than others. When I adopted Chuck (and his sister Ella), he was my first orange and white cat. Big personality. Mischievous. Eternally curious. 

     I remember one day when he disappeared for close to an hour. He was in the backyard one minute and gone the next. Ella waited for his return by the patio door. Patiently. I was about to send out the search party (ie. look for him myself) when he scampered back into the yard. 

     Before I could react, Ella marched up and smacked him across the face. She angrily meowed. Chuck hung his head in shame. Later I found out he'd discovered a catmint garden a few houses down. Let's just say he came back slightly buzzed. 

     But that was Chuck.

     All of this is a necessary or unnecessary preamble to what I'm about to report. Of course, losing Chuck hit me hard. He was a one of a kind cat. Or so I thought.

     Imagine a cool morning sunrise. I stumble out of bed and make my way downstairs to feed the cats. There, sleeping on a blue blanket on my sofa, is Chuck. He's curled up and looking so cute. For a moment I forget that Chuck is gone. I am in a blissful non aware state. Until his eyes open. Golden brown eyes stare at me.

      Reality hits me. They're not Chuck's eyes. 

       It's Michelangelo. Mico for short. Barely a year old. Sometimes it seems as if Chuck has been reincarnated into my orange and white Mico. He has so many of the same mannerisms--playful, big personality, curious, active, mischievous . . . 

Chuck 

      

Mico - Can you tell the difference?

       But there's a difference. I lived with Chuck for fourteen years. I could sweep him into my arms, hug him to death, kiss his face and he tolerated all of it. When he settled into my lap, it felt like heaven. 

My darling boy

       Mico has only lived here for a few months. Because he was once feral, he has a hard time trusting. I can hold him for, maybe, ten seconds before he squirms to get away. if I try to kiss his face, he reacts as if I'm about to smother him to death. 

       I can hear what you're thinking. Life moves on. Change happens. Chuck is gone but you're really lucky to have Mico. I know all of this. 

       But still, in the quiet of the morning, I'd love to wake up and find that nothing has changed. Chuck is still there--wandering in a circle, waiting for his breakfast, waiting to be let outside on the patio so he can hear the bluejays squawk and watch the squirrels take suicidal leaps from one branch to the next. 

       All I'm saying is that I'd love to have Chuck back again . . . if only for a day. 

Three Rapscallions And the Partial Eclipse

    I'm a big fan of eclipses. I've never yet seen a total eclipse--where the world around you turns totally dark--but I never miss the chance to see what I can see when the fateful moon lands in front of the heavenly sun. The area you're standing in darkens. You look up and that usually round sun is no longer round--now it has taken on the properties of a partial moon--that tiny sliver that sits so confidently in the sky.

     It's exciting. It's magical. Even though I know it's science, pure and simple. Back in the day my dad, an electrical engineer, ran a company to market his products, his inventions. Some of those electrical trancells and diodes ended up on NASA rocket ships. I have a fond memory of sitting in our living room, staring at the tiny television screen, when Neil Armstrong, an American astronaut, landed on the moon. I felt proud. My dad was helping make that possible.

     So I've always been infatuated with the planets, the moon and those things we strive to understand more about. And, yeah, I guess I did my fair share of talking about the eclipse.

     The three rapscallions, who usually only seem to be listening when there is talk of a snack, must have been tuned in. Because . . . just as the eclipse was launching a show, the three of them lined up at the patio door to look outside. Theo, Mico, and Sienna, the three rapscallions.

      I'd warned them they weren't going to see a full eclipse. I told them that New Jersey was not in the pathway that ran from Texas to Maine.  Still . . .

      Was it pure coincidence that they were lined up as if I were giving out snacks, patiently waiting, looking out over our patio and then up . . . 

       Clouds rolled in, but they didn't obscure the beauty of the moment. You could see the sun--that unusual sliver of the sun--as it fought to maintain its presence in the sky. The moon continued to move in front of it, but the sun fought valiantly to shine through. And then it faded from sight.

        

       Later, when the sun reappeared, I asked Theo why they wanted to see a partial eclipse. He's a pure tabby of few words. First, he jumped onto a table and glanced out the window. "I had to do it, see?"

        I understood exactly what he meant. 

Mico and The Drain Stoppers

      We've never lived with a cat like Mico. He's cute as a button, faster than a speeding bullet as he careens around corners, and as wily as a fox. He looks like an angel when he's sleeping. When he's awake, this perky one year old rapscallion is always hatching a plot--to secure more snacks or more toys.

       Well, the truth is everything Mico sees or smells is a toy. 

        After Theo solves the missing mouthguard case, Dan and I put ourselves on high alert. 

        "We can't leave anything out."

         "Absolutely nothing."

         "Agreed."

        We think we're smart. We have the immediate situation under control. But then the unthinkable happens. Two drain stoppers in two different sinks upstairs disappear. Drain stoppers? To explain how mysterious this is (by this time we have a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomach--no pun intended--that Mico, that dextrous nymph is somehow involved) you must realize that Mico must have taken his two front paws, brought them together and lifted the stopper out of the hole that it sits while balancing himself in the sink.  

        We canvas the entire house. All the usual haunts--under beds and behind dressers. We check, of course, the stairs where Theo found the mouthguard.

       No drain stoppers. Nothing is ever easy.

        Every time I use the upstairs bathrooms, I feel sick inside. It's an eyesore. The sink drain sits there, totally exposed. 

       Finally, in desperation, we discuss in whispers how to solve the problem. 

       "What can we offer Theo to get him to help?" Dan asks.

       "Maybe we can sit him down and just ask him."

        Dan laughs. But it works. Theo, within a matter of seconds, finds the missing drain stopper for the hall bathroom. I feel so grateful I let him eat a Tuna and Scallop Churo all by himself. 

         Practically on hands and knees, we beseech Theo to find the other drain stopper. The one for the master bathroom. Theo shrugs. 

         Days go by. No drain stopper. We imagine that Theo is engaged in intense negotiations with Mico, trying to discover where he's hidden it. 

         Three mornings later I'm in the kitchen putting out three bowls of food, but only Theo is pacing back and forth, slipping between my legs, impatient for his food. 

         Where are Sienna and Mico? We check all the rooms, under all the beds, in the closets . . . and finally turn to Theo, who by this time has eaten his breakfast.

         "We give up. Where are they?"

         His eyes get bigger than usual.

         "With the drain stopper," I guess, half kidding.

         Theo leads us up the stairs, down the hallway and stops at the hall bathroom. He nods. "I had to do it, see?"

        We look in. The room is totally empty. Except . . .

         "You don't think . . ." We whisk the shower curtain aside. Two guilty kittens stare back at us. Sienna and Mico. 

          And behind Mico--the drain stopper.

          Theo explains, "I told them it was today. See? When I was going to turn them in."

          I grab the drain stopper. Sienna is watching me. Mico is pouting in the bathtub, refusing to come out.

 

        Then it hits me--I've got the stopper, but I can't put it back in the drain where it belongs--Mico will take it again. So, in the drawer it goes. And the sink drain sits there, STILL totally exposed. 

         But we relent. Days later we reinsert the drain stopper with a new plan. Push the button to make sure it is lying flat in the sink. Then pour water over it so Mico will have to wet his paws to even get near it.

         Self satisfied that we've solved the problem, we relax. But . . . one day someone forgets to push down the stopper and put the water on top of it. 

          Yeah, Mico strikes again. This time Theo says, "Mom . . ." So now we have one drain stopper in the drawer and one drain stopper who knows where . . . 

           If Mico wasn't so cute . . .