A Rascally Hero in the Cemetery

 I love cemeteries. They not only make me feel peaceful, but I have to admit, I feel a bit in awe to be among people who used to live on this earth--sometimes hundreds of years ago--and now they're in their final resting place.

A few years ago I learned an interesting fact. When American soldiers fight overseas in foreign lands, and they are killed, their families have to make a choice--to have the soldier's body shipped back to the USA or have them buried with their fellow soldiers in an American cemetery, close to where they died. Many families choose an American cemetery overseas, and as a result throughout the world, there are American cemeteries that hold our fallen.

If you're a fan of World War II, like I am, you probably know that Allied forces fought several battles to drive the Germans out of Italy and liberate Rome. One battle (approximately 35 miles south of Rome) was fought at Anzio. Other battles were fought in Sicily. 

The Sicily-Rome American Cemetery and Memorial is one of two permanent WWII American cemeteries in Italy. It holds 7,860 headstones of American soldiers who died in the battles which were fought. A chapel has the names engraved of 3,095 who went missing. 

The battles began on July 10, 1943 and ended when Rome was liberated on June 4, 1944. The cemetery contains 7,738 Latin crosses made of Lasa marble and 122 Stars of David.

Contrary to what you might expect, these cemeteries are beautiful. The lawns are perfectly manicured. There is always a fountain or pool. There is a chapel and a visitor center. 

I have no idea how Theo will react when we arrive. I imagine he'll want to run in the grass. Bask in the sun. Watch the water cascade down in the North garden fountain. Feel the wind caress his face. Will he understand where we are? 

We want to see all 77 acres. It's hard to arrive and see all the crosses perfectly lined up on the grounds, knowing each cross represents a person who left their home, was part of a battle, but never believed they would end of here. Most still had the greater part of their lives in front of them. Most had family that mourned when they didn't return. 

We walk around the grounds. We see the beautiful pool of water. 

We visit the chapel and read through some of the names that are engraved. We marvel at the ornate ceiling.

  

"Theo, there's something else we need to do."

Part of the tradition is to leave a flower near one of the crosses as a sign of remembrance and respect. I explain this to Theo and we walk through the crosses in one section. I am ready to lay the flower on one of the crosses dedicated to an unknown soldier. As the engraving reads, "he's known only to God."  But as I move closer, Theo stops me. 

"It's something I have to do," he meows.

I put the flower in his mouth, and he drops it slowly in front of the cross. 

I have to admit I underestimate the kid too often. But he's well aware of the concept of fighting and territory. As a cat, he fiercely guards the land that surrounds our house. Other cats are not welcome. Other animals are barely tolerated. Birds and squirrels--he's fascinated but usually wants them gone.

"Chucky would be proud of you, Theo." And then I give him a snack. After all, he's only a cat.

Theo is taking a much needed two week break from being the star. He will be relaxing at home with Sienna and Mico. Our next blog will be posted on October 29! See you then. Meow. 

Theo and the Italian Carousel

 This is not my first time in Rome. Over the years, I've arrived and conquered (as they say), taking time to explore all my usual haunts--The Spanish Steps--and never missing a chance to walk through the Villa Borghese Park. It literally sits behind The Spanish Steps on the grounds of what used to be an old vineyard. It was commissioned by a pope. It became a public park in 1908. It covers 60 hectares or approximately 2,000 acres.  And it is considered Rome's favorite park.

In the summer it is the perfect place to explore, especially if you're traveling with a cat who longs to be free and roam wide. Theo wants out of the backpack and down on the ground. He wants to sniff, sniff, sniff. 

So we climb the Spanish Steps--no easy feat--and turn left. We walk and walk and eventually spot a purple bush along the side of the road--the marker that tells us to begin the trek up another winding road to reach the park.

We're not expecting lush greenery here--not in June in the middle of Rome. There is little rain and the weather is hot. But I am expecting to catch a glimpse of the many antique statues that line the main road. It is astonishing to find such statuary in the middle of a park. 

We don't have the time or energy to walk all 2,000 or so acres, but I do want to show something to Theo. Something he's never seen before. 

"It's a surprise," I tell him. 

He tilts his head, and I know what he's thinking.

"No, it's not food."

I see a little bit of disappointment. 

"But, I promise after you see the surprise, we'll stop for gelato."

Now, Theo is no ice cream fan, but he does love gelato. The taste is different than ice cream, less sweet, and more--dare I say--luscious? And even though Theo can't speak a word of Italian, he does know the word gelato.

"There . . . there it is." 

I have no childhood memories of ever riding a carousel. Maybe that's why I am so enthralled with them as an adult. To me it is a magical place. You climb onboard and around you go. You forget for a moment that you're not really going anywhere, but as you whirl around in a gigantic circle, you lose sight of your family for a moment as the scenery whirs past until they appear again, waving and smiling. 

This carousel is furnished with different forms of transportation. I spot a Cinderella like coach, a mini sport car, and a Choo Choo train.

Theo rushes forward and jumps aboard. He wanders around and, you can guess it, sniffs. The carousel is deserted. Theo has it all to himself. Time goes by. 

"Okay." We've been roving around Rome for hours. We want to walk back to our hotel, clean up and get dinner. 

Theo is moving from the coach to the sport car to the Choo Choo train. He has no intention of leaving his surprise. 

"He's going to sniff every inch of that carousel," I realize with despair.

Dan doesn't like the sound of that. 

"Yeah, yeah." Dan, the hero, walks over, swoops Theo up and begins rushing toward the ice cream stand. Theo shoots me a dirty look, but Dan continues to march along.

And then I get a surprise, too. Some trees in Italy have the most unusual shape. They look like giant tree umbrellas. And one is growing by a palm tree. I can't resist capturing them. It is a sight you'll never see in New Jersey.

Finally, we order a gelato grande. Ordering gelato in Italy is different than ordering an ice cream in America. You get one flavor and one flavor only. In Italy, we can choose three flavors--Pistachio, Crema, and Stracciatella (Pistacchio, Cream and Vanilla with chocolate shreds in it.) Theo loves the Crema. 

While we eat, we stare at the trees. Heaven! And even Theo seems happy, as happy as a gangster cat can be!

Star Struck Theo at the Spanish Steps

 One of the most surprising things about Rome is that we see so few cats. There are dogs--big dogs, small dogs--especially Dachsunds--but no cats.

Until Theo spots an orange cat, who seems to come out of nowhere, navigating the narrow Roman streets, and heading toward the Spanish Steps. Now, there are a thousand reasons to visit the Spanish Steps, or as the Italians call them "la Scalinata:"

*It is the longest and widest staircase in Europe so it is a sight to see.

*Roman Holiday, that delicious movie with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck was filmed there in 1953.

*The fountain in Piazza di Spagna, the square in front of the steps, contains Fontana della Barcaccia (ugly boat) and was inspired by an ugly little boat that became stranded in that square in 1598 when the Tiber River flooded and the pope at that time wanted to commemorate the strange event.

*The 135 steps, built in the Rococo style, were funded by the French, believe it or not, and lead to Piazza Trinita dei Monti, to a church at the top.

*Italians and tourists collide there for the views of Rome from the top to the street below which is the premier shopping district in Rome.

*The steps host fashion shows and concerts throughout the year.

*There is no sitting on the steps. If you try to sit, for even a moment, eventually you will be roused to your feet by a loud shrill whistle from the police who patrol there.

Theo doesn't care about any of these facts. He sees a cat, the first one he's seen since he arrived. It is a revelation to him because he was thinking there are no cats in Rome. After all, at home, we have cats who visit our patio all the time, lounge on the pavers, stroll through the backyard as if they own the place. We arrive in Rome, and there are no cats.

Until Theo spots this orange big boned cat, who obviously meows Italian . . . I try to explain this to Theo. 

"He's an Italian cat. What will you two meow about?"

But Theo is nothing if not stubborn. So that is how we end up near the Spanish Steps. The first time. Well, actually we end up at the fountain, shaped like that of an ugly boat, with water spewing out from seven different points into the basin that surrounds it. 

The intrepid orange cat jumps up onto the edge of the basin. Is he actually going in for a swim? Isn't there a rule here that forbids cat bathing?

Several tourists begin to notice. This cat seems to have every intention of doing the unthinkable. He's leaning forward and sniffing. He's even bouncing a little, the way cats do before they take the mighty leap. People point and begin to chant. "Salta. Salta." Jump. Jump.

But that cat has no intention of jumping into the fountain and, perhaps, getting arrested and paying a fine. He looks around and then, as if he's not the cause of all the ruckus, jumps down and  saunters away.

I assume Theo will follow him, but he doesn't. Our gangster cat is star struck, like he can't quite believe what he's seen. Such bravado! Such nerve!

I pick Theo up and don't say a word. But we can't help but glance back at that cat. The brave boy is picked up and is now being carried out of the square by a beautiful woman with long dark hair. Probably by his Italian mama. 

Be still my heart. And then I think--that cat looks just like Chucky. It is as if Chucky has appeared to show Theo--this is what an adventure looks like. Go for it! 

Cool.

                                 In honor of Chucky, the rascal cat. 

Is Theo a hero or a brat?

 Pasquale picks us up from the Rome Airport and takes us to our Hotel on probably the worst day of the year in Rome. The city is host to a marathon that literally runs past our hotel. Pasquale is tasked with outwitting the Marathon authorities so he can deliver us and our luggage as promised. Theo, who is with us, rests comfortably in a backpack, his head lolling around, his eyes closed. 

Pasquale, dressed professionally in nice Italian made slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt that is rolled up to his elbows, is in his early sixties. He knows Rome like the back of his hand. He speaks a little English and is visibly relieved when we ask him to talk to us in Italian because we want to practice.

This request unleashes a wealth of information. Suddenly Pasquale transforms from a reticent driver into a gregarious tour guide, pointing out the various sights we pass as we enter Rome proper and wind through the narrow and busy streets.

Pasquale pretends not to notice Theo, nestled between us. Our driver most likely assumes he is harmless. Theo doesn't growl or meow. I hold a Churos, a special treat for Theo, just in case.

Pasquale talks about his experiences as a driver, answers all our questions, but finally admits he's a dog lover. He's lived on a farm and doesn't see much use for cats . . . as pets. Theo understands English but his Italian is shaky. I hope Pasquale's comment has gone over his head. 

By some miracle, we arrive at Hotel Delle Nazioni, weaving in and out of streets that are temporarily closed and then reopened. We literally have seconds to disembark from the car. It is illegal to park where we have stopped. Pasquale is being a good driver. Dan is in charge of the luggage. I grab my backpack and reach for Theo.

Theo, resistant, backs away from me. He meows. His behavior is so unusual. So odd. For the most part Theo is becoming a veteran traveler. There is no time for questions. I literally pick him up by the scruff of his neck and pull him out of the car, the backpack swinging behind him. He is as surprised as I am that he's being "manhandled."

In the hotel lobby we sit on comfortable sofas, waiting for our rooms to be ready. I'm exhausted and don't have the strength to find out what Theo was thinking. Later, in our rooms, I'll unravel the mystery.

I reach for my iPhone, which should be wedged in the pocket of my pants. It's gone. Nowhere to be found. Everything is in that phone--our air itinerary, our tickets to the Colosseum, maps of the city. I feel physically sick. I know I had it when we met Pasquale. How will I ever track him down? I don't even have his last name.

At that very moment, before my panic overtakes my common sense, Pasquale reappears. He is holding out my phone. It must have fallen onto his car's backseat, then the floor. I jump up and hug Pasquale. I am so grateful. Then I collapse back onto the sofa, grasping my phone like a lifeline. Which it is.

It strikes me then as I glance at Theo's disappointed face. "Is that why you wouldn't get out of the car? Were you trying to tell me . . ." I hold out my phone.

Theo meows plaintively, pitifully--his usual maneuver when he knows he's won that round. Now he doesn't feel like talking. All he wants is a snack from his totally grateful mom. 

Is Theo a hero or a brat? I'll never know.

He's no Smokey the Bear

          Sometimes I'm amazed at how brave Theo can be. 

       Case in point: Quite by chance he catches sight of an old TV commercial warning against forest fires. Smokey the Bear is the hero, of course. Nice bear, Theo thinks. Who can do no harm. Who likes honey. 

       He gets an idea in his head--bears are kind, gentle, friendly creatures, like Teddy Bears.

       Fast forward. We are at our local zoo. Standing outside a large fenced in area (fenced-in for a reason) where a sloth bear lives.

       Sloth bears are big, brown, furry bears with big noses. They love a challenge. The zoo keepers will often hide their food at the very top of a man-made wooden structure, forcing Mr. Sloth Bear to climb up, sniff around, and figure out how to get to the food. Because he has uniquely designed long curved claws, he can easily climb and hang from trees. 

       Sloth bears can also forage on their own for food, of course. They can consume 40,000 insects in a single feeding by suctioning the insects into their mouth, creating a kind of funnel with their lips and tongue. Zoo keepers say that when they eat they sound like a vacuum cleaner and can be heard from 300 feet away. 

       Theo is in awe. If he could, he would climb into the bear habitat. Reach out and try to be friends. He learned that from Chucky. Always the ambassador.

       This is what he wants from me. To lift him over the fence and plop him down into enemy territory (my words.) So he can approach the bear because he believes that Mr. Sloth Bear IS Smokey the Bear. 

       By a pure coincidence, this sloth bear does look like Smokey. What are the chances of that? 

       "Theo, I would gladly help you. But . . ."

        "I have to do it, see?"

         My little gangster cat. I hate to ruin his day. I wish he could keep on believing that Smokey the Bear lives at our local zoo and just does TV spots to earn a little extra cash. That he's an employee of the Forest Service. A government employee. 

         There is no Santa Claus. Or Easter Bunny. Now, interestingly enough, there was a real bear who Smokey was based on, but that real bear lived a long time ago.

          "The truth is, Theo, he isn't Smokey the Bear. He's a look alike Smokey the Bear. And he's dangerous." I want to say-he could suck you up like those poor insects. He could claw you to death. In short . . . I pause. "Theo, he's a wild animal."

         Theo frowns. He doesn't care. If he could, he would make tiny muscles in his cat arms to show me how fearless he is.

         "He doesn't want to make friends."

         Theo wiggles a bit in my arms. He has a clean view of the sloth bear. We can hear grunting and snorting sounds. 

         "Right now he's foraging for food. Sniffing all around like you do. And he's with a friend."

         Sure enough, another sloth bear has suddenly appeared and they're foraging together.  

         "But he's fun to watch," I add. 

         We leave the habitat with things unresolved. "This is a cruel world. Everyone isn't your friend. Sometimes you have to live and let live. That's our new motto. Okay?" 

          Theo looks up at me. "Really?"

          In truth--it's tough raising a cat. 

           

            

      

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