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

    
 

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 Walks the Boards and Visits a Fortune Teller

And that is one thing I have grown accustomed to--as the official guardian of a rascal cat--Chuck always has another idea.

The kid is full of ideas.

Good ideas and bad ideas.

Now, as we were making our way back to our hotel room--ensconced in the escalator--after Chuck had squandered every penny of my twenty bucks playing the slots--he pushed a card out of my smart bag and it tumbled to the floor.

A calling card advertising a certain madame on the boardwalk. No, not that kind of madame. A tarot-card-reading-fortune-telling madame by the name of Sylvia. Sylvia?

Was the kid for real?

“Why?” We had this conversation the next early afternoon after we finally woke up. “Why do you need to have your fortune told? What is it you need to know?”

But, as usual, Chuck pretended not to hear me. He was too busy gazing out the large window that overlooked the ocean, fascinated by the waves that swept into shore. He had never seen the Jersey shore before. Or the ocean.

“We can spend the day on the beach,” I promised.

Chuck remained firm.

I know Chuck when he gets into one of his moods. He gets an idea in his head and he just won’t budge. Like hardened cement.

So, yeah, you guessed it. The next thing I knew, after lunch -- because the kid never misses a meal -- we were trekking down the Jersey boardwalk in search of Sylvia.

I half prayed that, perhaps, she had gone out of business. Or that we wouldn’t find her. But, unfortunately, she had a little storefront not too far from where we were staying with her name prominently displayed in front.

“SYLVIA. PSYCHIC READINGS. TAROT CARDS”

We were doomed, I thought. But then I had another thought. Maybe she would have some objection to doing a reading for a CAT. Oooh, things were looking brighter. After all, who could ever tell what a cat was thinking?

So, in I marched through the door, into the darkened hallway -- why are they always so dark -- and up to the counter. A woman stood there.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I--”

“You want your fortune read?”

“I want a fortune read, but it isn’t for me. You see . . .” and I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s for . . . my CAT.”

I don’t know what I expected. But this woman -- Sylvia -- didn’t blink an eye. “Whatever. That will be ten dollars.”

And why should she care? After all, my fortune. Chuck’s fortune. It was the same ten dollars for two minutes worth of work.

“You can do a reading on a CAT?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Follow me.”

I was caught. Now I had to go through with it.

“I hope you’re happy,” I whispered to Chuck as I walked around the counter and into a corner room on the right.

“Put Chuck there,” she said.

Now that was spooky, because I hadn’t said his name at all, but I did what she wanted.

She pulled out a deck of cards, tarot cards, and like in the movies, began placing them down on the table in front of us.

“For this reading,” she said looking directly at Chuck, “The cards tell me three things.” Then she proceeded to stare at the cards. Touch one in particular. “Ah. You will live a long life. For a cat.” She almost smiled.

Then she fingered another card, and it was as if she was receiving special information through her fingertips. “You are lucky. You will be very healthy in your life. No major illnesses that I can see.”

She closed her eyes then and waved her hands over the cards that remained on the table. Settled on a third card. Her eyes popped open. “Ah. Now this is very interesting. A stranger will come into your life. A mysterious stranger. This is not always good news, my furry friend. But, luckily, in this situation, this stranger will bring you much happiness.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. At least from all this mumbo jumbo we had gotten good news.

After we left, as we walked back to our hotel room, I wondered if Chuck believed the fortune teller or not.

Personally, I was on the fence.

It didn’t seem possible that anyone could tell the future and yet, Sylvia had known Chuck’s name. And that freaked me out.

I hadn’t said his name. He wasn’t wearing his name anywhere on him.

And, literally, we had just shown up on her doorstep.

I reached the only obvious conclusion I could make -
Sylvia was either a real psychic or she was an incredibly good guesser.