Theo versus the Rooster

       How do I even begin to tell this story?

     Gangster cat versus Rooster. Theo, our adorable gangster cat is king of the household. His meow is final. And that was even before he met up with Bad Boy JoJo at the baby shower. Although Mico and Sienna can be terrors at times, they know that when Theo meows, the fun is over. He can't be ignored. They stop what they're doing. 

       But out in the real world, would Theo continue to reign supreme?

       A few weeks ago, when Theo came with me and my three sisters to visit my other sister--who lives in a former Amish home that she's been renovating for the past year in Virginia--Theo had two goals. To meet JoJo (which he did) and to meet a rooster face to face.

       This was totally my fault. I happened to mention that my sister Caroline had chickens and a rooster. 

       The inside house tour came first. We oohed and ahhed as we walked through her house, marveling that she and her husband had installed walls, added electricity and water, heating and cooling, and literally transformed the space into a work of art.  My sister Caroline loves plants, and they lined the windows. She had clippings in a specially designed wall hanging.

       

          Theo ho-hummed his way through the first and second floors. He exchanged pleasantries with his two cat cousins, but he seemed unusually interested in her small sitting area. The pillows had the imprint of roosters. That's all Theo needed to see. 

         He was eager to get outside. He wanted to meet the Rooster. 

         I continue to marvel at how Theo knows so much about things he's never before encountered. Where we live in New Jersey, not too many people have chickens in their back yard. Few have a rooster. So why was he so determined to meet a Rooster? Was this destined to be an all out struggle for species dominance?

         So I did my research. Modern Farmer did a wonderful expose on the difference between a hen and a rooster. 

        A hen lays eggs. A rooster doesn't. A rooster has a larger wattle, that elongated fleshy skin that hangs under the beak. A rooster also has a more pronounced comb, that fleshy red crest on top of a chicken's head. A rooster has larger and pointier neck feathers called hackle feathers. So far I'm not concerned, but the contrast soon becomes alarming.

       Roosters are stronger and have more stamina than hens. They are more assertive. Bossy. Their legs are thicker. Some roosters develop pointed sharp spurs on their legs which they can use to defend themselves.

       "Where is this rooster anyway?" I ask my sister Caroline.

       "What do you mean? He's with the hens."

        "In a fenced in area?" I ask. I hope.

        She laughs. "Oh, yeah. If he wasn't fenced in, he'd probably run away."

        I glance over at Theo. He's swaggering with us across her gigantic yard (she has acres and acres of land). Is this a good idea? Should I give in to this crazy idea that he has to meet a Rooster?

        Suddenly, Theo spots a groundhog running along the edge of my sister's property. The little guy is running around 100 miles an hour. I half pray that Theo takes off after him. Theo is fast, but not that fast. Maybe then he'll lose interest in the rooster.

        But no such luck. Theo is interested, but he's no fool. He shrugs his shoulders and turns his sights to one thing and one thing only--the chicken coop. The rooster.

        I feel like we're at the OK Corral and this is going to be a showdown. 

        As we move closer, we hear the tell-tale cock-a doodle-do. And he's loud. All riled up about something. His rooster call is deafening.

         Finally, we're there. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the fence. But then I see the Rooster . . .

        

       who has puffed himself up, as if ready for a life and death encounter. Theo oh so casually moves closer to the fence. 

         Is Theo safe? "Don't get any closer," I almost cry out. But I don't. Theo goes nose to beak with the rooster and begins to sniff. The rooster stops squawking. 

         Then Theo walks away. 

         That's it? No life and death struggle? 

         Don't tell me that this is another example of inter-species communication. Cats and Roosters? 

         "I had to do it, see?" Theo explains when we're safely back in New Jersey. No chickens. No roosters. But seriously, who is this cat anyway?

  

Rascal Chuck Vanishes in the Country Store

      I'm going to call this Part II. If you remember from last week, Dan, Chucky and I left the supposedly deserted school, crossed the street, and now face the prospect of exploring The Country Store.

      We hesitate before even going in. The Country Store looks innocent enough. The store owner stands on the doorstep and waves us inside. Still, we're suspicious. We're supposed to be in a restored village from the late 1800's.  

    Dan, the voice of reason, tries to make light of it. "Maybe you just imagined what you heard." 

    Chucky looks at me and I look at him. 

    "We didn't imagine it." 

    We now think the school is haunted, but, we see two people coming out of the Country Store--unharmed and laughing. 

    "We'll only stay for a minute," I whisper to Chuck. "Stay close by." But who am I fooling? Chuck, otherwise known as Inspector Chuck Clouseau, now has his mojo back. He marches up to that store, determined to sniff his way through.

    "Welcome to the Landis Valley Country Store," the volunteer interpreter says, who's playing the role of store owner. He's dressed like he would from the turn of the century. Dan immediately engages him in conversation, and this guy is good. He never breaks out of his role. It's almost as if he believes he really is the owner. 

    "I see you brought the missus," he says. "Go on. Look around. But stay out of the post office," he warns, his tone darkening.  No explanation. Just--stay out.

    Chucky has, of course, begun sniffing. Dan continues to talk. I feel as if I've been dropped into some kind of time portal wonderland. I want to stop and pick up everything. Imagine what it would have been like to live back then, before electricity, tv, internet. This is a world that still revers George Washington as a hero.

   Most of the people who lived in this village grew their own food. This country store, for them, was like amazon is for us today. 

 

     

 

    

    I spot the old-fashioned operator phone in the corner and step over to have a closer look. I imagine this would have been the only phone available in the village. You came to the country store to make a call. You came to collect your mail. 

    Stay out of the post office. I turn to my right, remembering the volunteer/owner's warning. Chucky has sniffed his way through the store and is now feet away from the post office. I imagined an actual office, but it's only a section of the store with a sign and three walls with cubbies to put the mail. 

   "Chuck," I call out, trying to avoid the inevitable. 

   For years Chuck has suffered from selective hearing. He can hear his snack bag rattling from two floors away, but to hear his name being called out a few feet from him--for some unexplained reason, a sound barrier goes up. 

    "Chuck, stop."

    He doesn't. He sniffs his way into the Post Office. 

     I turn toward the front of the store. Dan is still talking, talking with the volunteer/store owner/and I can also assume postmaster about 1860 politics of all things. I have a few moments, I think, to make this situation right. I will run in, scoop Chuck up, before the postmaster realizes that Chuck is in the post office. 

    But Chuck has vanished. Totally. Desk, stool, cubbies. All there. No Chuck. What? I look around. Did he run past me? No. There is absolutely nowhere he can be hiding in this post office space. 

    

    Now I'm worried. Maybe there is a good reason why this guy wants us to stay out of the post office. 

    I have no choice now. Just confess everything. Get Dan. Then tell the volunteer/owner/postmaster what has happened. 

    I purse my lips and get Dan. He follows me to the back of the store. He reads my body language. He knows something is wrong. 

    "Where's Chuck?" he asks.

    I grab his arm, speechless, and point to the post office. 

    "Hey," Dan says in his calm, reasonable voice, "you're not supposed to be in there."

    Chuck is not a big talker, and for a rascal cat, he has a small voice, but I can hear him clear as day. Meow.

    "Chucky." There he is as if he were there the entire time. But he wasn't there. 

    I tell Dan the horrid truth. "There's something fishy about this place. I can feel it."

     "I don't know what to say." Dan picks Chuck up, and we say goodbye. 

    "Can we just go? Now?" I ask. Beg.

    "But what about the shoemaker?" Dan asks. "What can possibly go wrong at the shoemaker?"

                              TO BE CONTINUED - PART III

    
 

Rascal Chuck and the Disappearing Cat

          It's been two weeks and one day. But who's counting? Chucky and Theo are still in separate rooms. We've taken down the baby gate. Closed the bedroom door.  And, yes, you might say we're moving backwards . . . and it's all because of what happened two Sundays ago.

        I wouldn't be exaggerating to say that Theo completely disappeared. One minute he's in the study upstairs, hanging out, and I'm practicing piano. I leave the room, baby gate intact, to make dinner. I come back up an hour later, and he's gone. 

        The room is approximately 20 feet by 15 feet.  Three chairs, two tables, four bookcases, a filing cabinet and a piano. No Theo. I look everywhere. Underneath everything. Rick Gillis in 2002 in Cat's Structure says that "Unlike human arms, cat forelimbs are attached to the shoulder by free-floating clavicle bones, which allows them to pass their body through any space into which they can fit their heads." This fact gives them a strange flexibility to squeeze into tight corners, between narrow crevices . . . 

        We widened the search to the house. Dan and I rip the place apart. We figure he must have slithered between the slats of the baby gate and is now on the loose. Chucky had developed this habit of perching near the baby gate. He would stare into the room, straight at Theo, as if he were attempting to put him into some kind of mystical trance. Theo didn't like it, and we theorized, he finally made a run for it and was now hiding somewhere.

        We can't find him. 

         Then I have a horrible thought. Earlier Dan has gone through the kitchen, opened the door to the garage and taken out the recycling. Theo most likely followed him.

         He must be . . . OUTSIDE. As I pronounce these words, like a scene in the movies, I hear the DUN, da DUN, da DUN sound which means something bad is about to happen. Then the dark clouds hovering over our house for the last couple of hours let loose and begin dumping buckets of rain everywhere.

        Dan opens the front door and looks out. "He could be anywhere."

        "I know."

        "He doesn't even know his name yet."

         "I know."

         "And he has an hour head start."

         "He's our responsibility. How can I go back to Tabby's Place and tell them I lost him?"

          We stay outside for close to an hour. We wear inadequate rain jackets that barely keep us dry. The backyard turns into a flood zone. We scour under bushes. Look under cars. 

           I feel sick inside. I am the worst cat mother. Ever. 

           Like two drowned rats, we come back into the house. Dan flops on the sofa. I go back to the study and go through the entire room again. I want to find him so bad. 

            I get a brainstorm. Chucky is pacing outside in the hallway. 

            "Chucky." I let him in the study. There are a thousand things I can say to him. He should have been nicer to his brother. This is the moment when he can make up for his not so nice deeds. But I know from experience it is better to be short and sweet.

            "Inspector Chuck Clouseau, FIND THEO."

             One thing Chucky can do well is sniff.  And sniff he does. He starts from one end of the room, and like the last time, he methodically smells each and every object he comes across. Until he stops. 

            Now, that's odd, because he's stopped directly in front of the massive barcalounger that sits in the corner of the room. 

            "C'mon, Chuck."

            He looks back at me. 

            I've searched underneath that chair.  At least a thousand times since Theo has disappeared. No . . . it's not possible. But Chuck is adamant. He won't budge. If he had a pointer finger, he would be literally pointing at the chair. If he were a dog, he would be . . . Well, finally I get it.

            I put all my weight against the chair and tilt it backwards, craning to see upwards, into the inner workings of the chair.

             Two little eyes peek back at me. 

               We've had that chair for ten years and never knew there's a compartment big enough for Theo to climb into. And sleep in for the last four hours. 

             Carefully, I put the chair down. Theo is safe and sound. He hasn't drowned in the freak storm that is presently pummeling our house. He hasn't been hit by a car and is lying defenseless and hurt in the middle of some street. He isn't lost somewhere. 

            Chucky, meanwhile, has sauntered over to Theo's food and is calmly munching away. 

            "Chucky, you're my hero!" I cry out, but he barely hears me. 

            That's how cat heroes are, I suspect. They don't need praise or snacks as motivation to do the right thing. Well, maybe they can do without the praise . . . but never the snacks. Oh, no. 

                 P.S.  When I'm not traveling the world with the rascal cat, I'm writing. The Blue Medallion, my latest novel, weaves together adventure, fantasy, and romance as Lily, the heroine, searches for redemption and love.

                 She doesn't know that the sacrifice she is called to make to fulfill her destiny will change her life forever.    

                  Available on Amazon in paperback 10.99 or kindle 2.99.

                  Follow the link for more information: 

             The Blue Medallion

     

       

Chuck Spots a Bison Burger on Steroids

 

    Yellowstone National Park is a big place. Correction. It is a big, terrifying, dangerous and beautiful place. While you, the innocent tourist with your over-eager sometimes hero cat (a legend in his own mind) are admiring the views,

you could get gored by a bison, if you get too close.

    This, I think, is the main problem when you're a tourist surrounded by wild animals. There are no electric fences or moats separating the animals from the tourists. When you're in Yellowstone, you're in the Wild West.

    As we traveled through the park, safely ensconced in our vehicle, we saw hundreds, probably thousands of bison grazing, minding their own business.

 

   

 Yellowstone is the only place in the United States where bison have lived continuously since prehistoric times. The park's population comprising the nation's largest population on public land--approximately 500,000. At one time, the bison were near extinction. But President Theodore Roosevelt came to the rescue.

    Years ago, I came too close to a bison in a parking lot. Close up, you can see how big they actually are. On average, a male bison stands between five and six feet tall and can be eleven feet long. Their horns alone are two feet long. And they weigh between 2200 and 2500 pounds. They are the largest mammal in North America. But don't be deceived. If you've ever watched them lumber along, you could think to yourself, ah, in a pinch, I could outrun this guy anytime. But you couldn't be more wrong. 

    

     Bison are known for spinning and changing direction quickly. Despite their weight, they can jump fences. They are strong swimmers. And they can run up to 35 mph. 

     

      I knew some of these bison facts when we were in Yellowstone, stopped and got out for a photo shoot. A group of bison were far enough away that I considered us safe as houses. For once, I could relax and just admire the view.  

     Chuck was in seventh heaven. He was all sniff, sniff, and more sniffing as he pawed around, trying to make sense of the ground underneath him. There were a few bushes that attracted his interest. I watched him for awhile and convinced he couldn't get into any mischief, I glanced away. Just for a second.

    Chuck zeroed in on the stream bordering us on one side. I heard the gurgling in the background and didn't think anything of it. It only added to the beauty of the nature scene before us. 

    But I was wiser now. After the boardwalk experience, I'd learned my lesson and wasn't about to let the rascal out of my sight. 

    He's a clever one. He sauntered in a diagonal direction--a little left, then a little right, but from the big view, it was clear to see the belly boy was heading toward the stream. Hmn. Would he jump in? Was he only looking for a drink? 

    He stopped when he was pretty darned close. Maybe two feet from the water. But I was right there behind him. 

    "Chuck," I said, "if you think you're going to jump into that stream or get close enough to get a drink of . . ."

    I saw the bison at that moment. On the other side of the stream. I kept my iPhone steady and began shooting, all the while holding onto Chucky, just in case.

    My first thought was--there were two bodies of water separating us. So we were pretty safe. Bison Boy was busy drinking water and not thinking about us at all. This was the closest I'd gotten so far to one of these magnificent animals so I could really see him. I dawdled. I'll stay here just a minute, I said as I made my recording. There was just something so breathtaking about the moment.  

    A little voice in my head then said, "If he decides to charge you, you'll be a goner. Just at the moment when you realize he's coming for you, he'll already be there. That's how fast they are. Is it worth the risk?"

    I know that bison have poor eyesight, but they have excellent hearing and an excellent sense of smell. It was June. They were losing their winter coats. It was all down to whether he felt threatened or not.

    Then I remembered. Look at his tail. If it's down and wagging, he's happy. If it's pointed straight up, you're in big trouble, and the bison is about to charge. I pulled Chucky closer to me, even as he was squirming to get away. 

    The bison's tail was down and wagging back and forth.

    "You are one lucky Chucky," I said. Nevertheless, I moonwalked back from the stream, holding Chucky in my arms. You never know what can happen when you travel with a rascal cat.

    

    

Chuck's Almost Trip to Yellowstone's Hell

 

    Sometimes it makes no sense whatsoever to bring a cat with you when you are on tour, especially when you go to a place like Yellowstone National Park.

      Let me explain. 

      Yellowstone intersects three states--mostly Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. It covers 3500 square miles and is fondly called a wilderness recreation area, home to wild animals like grizzly bears, wolves, bison, elk, and antelope. It has one of the largest petrified forests and over 250 waterfalls. Plus canyons, mountain ranges, and lakes. 

      All of that makes Yellowstone a dangerous place to visit. Especially with a cat. But when Chucky announced he wanted to see the very thing that makes this park so unique, well, we should have turned around and went home. 

      Yellowstone contains at least 10,000 thermal features including geysers, hot springs, mud spots and fumaroles. In short, these are like cracks into the inner earth allowing gasses and boiling liquids to reach the surface. 

      Touring this part of Yellowstone is no joke. If you wander off the boardwalk by accident, fall into a thermal feature, stick your finger into what appears to be an innocent puddle of water (which tourists have done) . . . well, let's just say you may not live to tell a happy story or any story at all.

    

   "Should we even take him (the rascal cat) with us?" I was having second thoughts even from the beginning. I know that most people think of Yellowstone and imagine subalpine forests, lodgepole pines,  and grassy meadows. It can be a beautiful place. But that's not where we were going.

    "All I can say is--you'll have to tell him," Dan declared.

    Needless to say, I chickened out. Chuck had his heart set on seeing the part of Yellowstone that some visitors described as going into the depths of hell or to put it more mildly into another world. So we packed him up, read him the riot act, and warned him to stay on the boardwalk at all times. 

      The first image we saw when we arrived at this dangerous part of Yellowstone sent the message loud and clear.

    At first I thought it was the bones of some animal, who had tried to escape some horrible fate, and had not made it.

    "Get a hold of yourself," Dan said. "It's 

just some branches."

     He was right, of course. 

   But the landscape only became bleaker with each step along the boardwalk that we took.

      We began to feel like, indeed, we'd landed on another planet. I was reminded of those early photos of the moon landings. Those stark ground photos which showed no signs of life. This landscape before us was different but equally eerie. No plants. A few dead trees. But no sign of life. 

      Of course, the only difference was this landscape had a kind of weird beauty caused by the variety of colors on the dead earth. Aquamarine to dark blue. Yellow. Orange. Red brown to burgundy. Even I got caught up in taking photos. A kind of beauty existed in the dead surroundings. 

     That is when it happened. And it was all my fault. I was supposed to be keeping my eye on Chuck. I took on the responsibility because Dan loves to take photos. I figured I'd be the logical one to make sure Chuck stayed on the boardwalk, the safe space. As we ambled along, I reasoned, there would be no birds, no animals to distract him. 

     What could he possibly find interesting out here in this barren landscape?

     I constantly underestimate this cat.

     As I looked around now and did not see him, my heart skipped a beat.

     Please God, no.

     I peered out over the landscape to see if somehow he'd wandered out there. Was is possible?

         

     I couldn't see him anywhere. No Chucky. 

     Of course, I imagined the worst. Somehow, without our noticing, he'd spotted something or smelled something and jumped off the boardwalk. He was down there somewhere. 

    Dan had another idea. "Maybe he crawled underneath the boardwalk." 

       

      Some cats like to be high and some cats prefer to be low. Chuck is one of those cats who prefer to be on ground level. We knelt down and looked underneath the boardwalk. No Chucky.

     

       I had to remain positive. "He usually listens to me . . ."

     

     "Except when he doesn't," Dan whispered.

     "I told him a thousand times not to get off this boardwalk."

    "We'll split up. You go this way. I'll retrace our steps and see if he's behind us."

     I raced ahead. The boardwalk curved to the left. The landscape remained much of the same, but with the fear of losing Chucky, I hardly noticed.

       I made promises to myself. If I find this darned rascal cat -- alive -- I promise I'll be the best mom in the world. I'll take such good care of him. I'll never let him out of my sight. From now on . . .

       An orange and white mass sat serenely on the boardwalk about 100 feet ahead of me.

      "Chucky," I screamed out his name. 

      There he was. As calm as can be. Staring out at the bleak landscape, as if under some kind of spell. He'd run up ahead and now saw something, who knows what out there, and was just sitting back, enthralled.

     Dan came up behind me. He pointed to something in the distance. 

"I think it's a hawk. Can you see it?"

     But I was too worked up to even want to see it. "That darned cat.

He'll be the death of me," I said to no one in particular because the 

    

     boys were distracted and were not listening. 

     "It's a red tailed hawk," Dan said to Chucky, who nodded. "They're common in the park. But not in this area. Good job of spotting."

      And, darn it, if that cat didn't start purring, imagining himself, no doubt, as some kind of hero. It didn't matter to him that he'd almost given me, his human mom, a heart attack. 

     Show off.