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?

    

Chuck Dreams of Love while in Honfleur

Honfleur - the loveliest of port cities with the old buildings in the foreground

 

                  I admit that I can’t and never will be able to read Chuck’s mind. Why he wants to come to Honfleur, this very popular tourist attraction in France, I can’t say.  I know why I want to be here.  

Honfleur is one of those unique places where you feel you’ve stepped back in time. Yes, the shops are modern.  You can see cars, etc.  That’s not what I mean.  In Honfleur, the essence of the place hasn’t changed.  The place that Monet came to paint over a hundred years ago is still here, waiting to be captured by the eye or the brush. 

Located near the Seine River, in northwestern France, Honfleur is the lovliest of port towns with a rich historic importance. What attracts me is the role the town played in the arts. Honfleur has been called the birthplace of Impressionism.  Monet came to this enchanted place to paint, and by doing so, he started the movement--encouraging artists to get out of their studios and into the light. 

Why this city is called the birthplace of Impressionism

As Chuck and I stand near the port, we are struck by the world we see: the lovely old brown buildings which contrast with the brightly painted timber framed architecture that is also so prevalent in this town . . . the ancient carousel . . . the bright red and yellow cloth awnings on the buildings . . . the gray wood of the stairways . . . the glistening blue water in the port . . . the white skinny boats . . . the cobblestone streets and walkways . . . the plaid blankets . . . the blue skies with the white clouds . . . the Church of St. Catherine built with a roof that looks like a boat. 

An ancient - turn of the century carousel

Timber frame house

Historic hotel

This town, thankfully was never bombed during World War II.  

A typical lunch is a crepe and a glass of cider, either dry or sweet.  After all, this is Calvados country, that lovely liquor made from French apples.

Where Chuck and I had our lunch

Tourists take in the sights.  They shop.  They eat.  Chuck relaxes beside me as I enjoy my crepe.  The sun is out full force.  It bounces off the water.  

Suddenly, I know why Chuck wanted to come to Honfleur.  He wanted some time to relax and dream.  I have this plaid blanket that he’d laying on, all comfy.  Eyes are closed.  No one is bothering with him.  Everyone must assume he’s a French cat.  

Monsieur Charles de Honfleur dreams of sailing on a skinny French boat with a lovely French cat while eating caviar and French fries.  

Oh yeah.   

Chuck Gets Faked Out - The French Way

The kid never seems to stop thinking. Or plotting may be the best word. After our little jaunt to Deauville, where Chuck impressed the girls with his “mussel opening” trick, Bob and I decided to do something for ourselves--or so we thought. I wanted to see Giverny--the luscious place where Monet had lived and painted and been inspired to do some of his loveliest impressionistic paintings.

I had no idea, whatsoever, that Chuck was into Monet.

Sure, I have Monet prints hanging around my house, but who expects a rascally cat like Chuck to notice, who seems to be more in tuned to watching Jersey Shore or the Kardashians on TV?

Well, he had noticed, and it seemed Chucky boy had been harboring a secret wish to see some of these paintings in person.

Now if you have ever been to Giverny, you know what a mob scene it can be. Tourists galore cram the place--milling about the beautiful grounds--admiring Monet’s gardens, the waterlily pond, and especially his house. Everyone wants to go inside the house and see how the great painter lived.

And Chuck had heard that Monet had one room completely filled with tons of his paintings. That’s the room that Chuck wanted to see.

Now this wasn’t going to be easy because as in most touristy places--NO CATS WERE ALLOWED. I would have to be super sneaky if Chuck was going to be able to stick his head out of my shoulder bag and see anything!

Of course, as soon as we arrived, we headed straight for the house. Chuck would have it no other way. Up the front steps and through the center hallway. He had no interest in seeing the kitchen or the exquisitely decorated dining room. And he was very squirmy, a bit pissed off that he had to keep his head hidden when if he were a dog, he could have most likely trotted into the house and barked his head off, and no one would have said a word. Yes, it is true. In France, the French people love their dogs and take them everywhere with them--drugstores, restaurants, etc. But that’s another story.

Anyway, here we were hurrying through Monet’s house because Chuck seemed about to burst inside my bag when we finally made it into the “painting” room. Strange, but I expected to see guards with machine guns or heavy guns at the door to the room. There were guards all right, but they stood around holding cell phones, with a kind of bored expression on their faces, as if they didn’t much care if someone stole one of the paintings.

Chuck peeked out and from that first instant, was mesmerized. I had to keep moving around the room, of course, and I felt sorry for the kid. He just wanted to stop and stare at one painting after another, as if he could get lost inside the picture. He seemed truly awestruck that he was face to face with a genuine Monet.

A stranger tapped me on the shoulder. “What you got there, a cat?”

I nodded. “He’s really into Monet.”

“Nice,” he said, reaching out his hand to try and pet Chuck, which was not such a smart idea. Chuck wouldn’t bite him or anything, but when Chuck is into something, he doesn’t like to be interfered with.

“He’s impressed,” I said to this total stranger. “You see, he’s never seen a real Monet before.”

The stranger laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Instantly, I detected something was wrong.
“What?”

“Real Monet, you say? Is that what this little guy thinks?”

Chuck whirled around at that moment, and you could see it in his eyes. He knew something was up. He knew something terrible was about to be said. His bubble was about to be burst.

The stranger said, “These aren’t real Monets.”

I gulped.

Then he waved his arm around the room, as if he needed to further illustrate his point. “I mean look. Do you see any armed guards anywhere? If these paintings were real, we’d be talking millions of dollars.”

I heard a sniffle coming from my shoulder bag. Poor Chuck, I thought.

The stranger reeled in on me. “You should be ashamed of yourself for deceiving this poor little guy. Letting him think he’s looking at the genuine article. These are all reproductions. Can you say that word, little guy? Reproductions.”

But Chuck had no intention of saying anything. He snarled, then disappeared like a puff of French cigarette smoke into my bag.

I stepped back away from the stranger and made a bee-line for the door. “Sorry, Chuck. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

And I thought back to what my husband had said back in Deauville--that it was humiliating that we, no I, was no smarter than a cat.