Welcome to my Blog!!! Chuck was born feral and homeless, but lucky for him, this belly boy, this rascal cat was rescued and traveled the world with me for years. Yeah, he was snarky and he was mostly on the lookout for good food and beautiful girl cats, but I loved him all the same. Now we pass the torch to Theo, an equally rascally feline explorer who will carry on Chuck's legacy. Join me as I continue to visit exotic locales with Theo and do the things that no one dares.
The Inspiration Behind the Blog
I was born to be a writer. When I published my first novel Wild Point Island, my orange and white rescued feral tabby Chuck decided he wanted to travel and see the island for himself. Chuck's desire to travel inspired me to begin the blog and take Chuck with me whenever I traveled, which I do frequently. This was not an easy task. First, I had to deflate the poor kid of all air, stuff him in my carry-on bag, remember to bring my portable pump, and when I arrive, I pump him back up. Ouch. He got used to it and always was ready to pull out his passport and go. Now it's Theo's turn. Smart. Curious. And, yes, another rascal.
Showing posts with label Plimouth Plantation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Plimouth Plantation. Show all posts
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Chuck, the Wannabe Native Chief!
Chuck has always had a thing for teepees and tents and being outside underneath the stars. He is one of those cats who should have been born hundreds of years ago when the West was still wild and a cat could still roam the plains free, without fear of being run over by a car or a wild horse.
After he attacked the woodpile in the English 17th c village of Plimouth, we lost no time hightailing Chuck over to the other half of the Plimouth Plantation--the Native American Wampanoag homesite--located on the Eel River, figuring he had a thing or two to learn about how the native people lived on the east coast.
At home we call Chuck the “eagle eye.” He is always the first one to spot the tiniest bug crawling along the window ledge. He goes nuts if there is a reflection from the sun off your wristwatch hitting the kitchen wall. He notices everything.
In that first minute when we arrived at the homesite, Chuck’s head popped out of my backpack, and he just itched to jump out and have a look around. This was not the usual protocol. After all, cats are seldom welcome anywhere.
But Chuck had a distinct advantage. Smoke.
There seemed to be smoke everywhere because it was cold, cold, cold and the only way to keep warm back then was to build a fire. Which created smoke. The entire homesite sat under a gray cloud, which gave the Chuckster just the protection he needed to roam around without being noticed.
So off we went. First, the “belly boy” trotted over to a lean-to where animal skins were being laid out to dry, skins which would later be used as clothing and bedding. Sniff, sniff, sniff, his curious nose couldn’t get enough.
But I could tell that Chuck had his eye on a bigger prize--the Wampanoag had recently completed building a massive dome-shaped house covered with bark. No, it wasn’t called a teepee. Native American domiciles out west were called teepees. In the East, the proper term is a “wetus” or “wigwam.”
Chuck snuck inside, and luckily no one noticed his furry body.
Imagine a rectangular structure that extended at least twelve feet high, with a dirt floor and a large campfire placed strategically in the middle for warmth. The beds, built from tree branches and off the ground, would be placed along the edge, but facing toward the center. This “wigwam” would be large enough for an entire extended family. The interior decorators were at work.
I started coughing from the smoke. So did Chuck.
There was nothing glamorous about life 400 hundred years ago.
Outside, shivering, I asked Chuck, “Have you seen enough?”
But Chuck was already scampering over to what appeared to be the cooking area. Two beautiful ladies sat in front of an oversized black kettle, preparing what would be the evening meal.
Oh, yeah, Chuck has an eye for the ladies.
Inside the kettle was a combination of berries, pumpkin seeds, squash . . . “Did the Chuckster want to stay for dinner?”
Ha.
He obviously didn’t think so. At that very moment a whiff of wind from the river blew through the camp, and the smoke cleared.
From the corner of my eye I noticed two official types “noticing” Chuck for the first time, frowning.
Oh, no.
It was true--the Chuckster had gone where no cat had ever gone before, but his idyllic trip back into the past was over.
We had to get out of here FAST.
“We’ve been spotted,” I whispered to the kid. “C’mon.”
Chuck was no fool. But, you know, what they say about cats-mighty curious.
He stopped mid scamper.
“Chuck, c’mon. We’re not welcome here.”
But Chuck had spied an authentic hand-carved canoe, or rather what the Native Americans called a “mishoon.” And at that moment, it was on fire. Yep. That’s right. No joke. It seems that the native people often used fire as a tool to hollow out a tree so they could “create” a canoe.
With no thought of the imminent danger from the “suits,” Chuck jumped on the edge of the canoe and began sniffing, careful not to burn his too curious nose off.
“That’s it,” I thought, as I grabbed him by the scruff of his orange and white neck. “You’ll thank me later when you’re not rotting in some Massachusetts jail cell awaiting sentencing from some dog loving judge.”
On our way back to the car, I asked him, “Well, Chuck, what do you think? Do you still want to live back then?”
No answer.
I had gently shoved the kid back into my backpack. Now I peeked inside. He looked to be catnapping.
Was he dreaming of a more rustic lifestyle when he could someday grow up to become Chief Chuck of the Wampanoag tribe?
Who knows what cats secretly dream about besides snacks?
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Chuck Attacks the Woodpile at Plimouth
In honor of Thanksgiving this year, Bob and I and our good friends Chuck and Phyllis decided to take a ride up to Boston and visit the Plimouth Plantation. The Chuckster, of course, came along for the ride, eager to see what a seventeenth century English village looked like.
Chuckie has a very active imagination for a cat, and he decided to pretend as we arrived in the parking lot of this living history museum, that he was really back in 1627.
What harm could that do?
The museum is divided into two sections: the 17th C English village along the shore of the Plymouth Harbor and the 17th C Native American Wampanoag homesite located along the Eel River.
It was a bit nippy outside and by the time we arrived in the village--late--we had no trouble letting Chuck wander around on his own. He has a thing for sniffing the grass, sampling the vegetation, and he didn’t hesitate when it came to hopping in and out of the herb gardens behind the twenty or so timber-framed houses. No harm done. We also explored the houses themselves, eyeing the quaint (translation super small) quarters, fireplaces, narrow beds, tiny tables and sparse furniture that constituted living arrangements almost 400 years ago.
All was well until . . .
I spotted the temptation before Chuck did, but there was little I could do about it. Stacked firewood. Now, at home, the Chuckster has a thing for climbing up or jumping up on piles of firewood--outside--neatly stacked. And Chuck is no lightweight. When he hits that stack with all his weight, something is sure to go a tumbling--the wood.
This stacking of firewood was like the mother of all stacking--imagine a circular arrangement of the wood, where the wood all comes together in the center, fanning out like a beautiful fan that’s been opened.
Chuck made a run for it. And I knew, just knew what he was going to do--make a running leap and hop up on top of it.
I imagined it all--some, if not all, of the stacked wood crashing to the ground below.
There was no way to stop the kid. No way at all.
I closed my eyes and waited. Secretly praying that no one else would witness the fiasco.
There was nothing. No crash. Nothing. What?
I peered out.
Chuck sat on top of the woodpile, like the King of the Mountain, and surveyed his seventeenth century kingdom.
Okay, maybe he dislodged one or two pieces.
Still, the kid was in trouble. With me.
The potential of what could have happened . . .
But he looked so cute posing up there. His big belly . . .
And, as he spied me getting closer, he knew just what to do--he jumped on down and posed on the ground.
You got to love a cat that will do what he has to do, even if it makes his mother crazy and comes this close to getting us kicked out of a living history museum!!!
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