Chuck Hears the Lion's Roar

And now for the rest of the story . . .

Unfortunately, the Chuckster’s encounter with the sleeping lions during our “picnic” did not satisfy my cat. He wanted more.

And wasn’t that just like my rascal Chuck?

First, he wanted to meet a lion face to face. Then he wanted to see a lion in action and hear the fellow “roar.”

I reminded him we were on safari and not part of some Disney movie. These were wild animals. We were traveling on the Serengeti Plain, the best game viewing spot in all of Africa. It cuts through Kenya and Tanzania. This is where the famous migration occurs every year. We were sure to see plenty of lions, but could I guarantee that we would hear a lion roar?

“Chuck, get serious, lions don’t just roar for the hell of it. They roar for a reason. And not a good reason.” The implication was clear. “Life as a lion is tough, Chuck. They don’t get their food from a cat can, like you do. What do you want to see? A life and death struggle for survival?”

Chuck blinked.

That’s exactly what he wanted to see.

And, of course, what Chuck wanted, he often got. Especially after he had spotted the leopard up the tree and practically saved Steven’s life. Steven now became committed to finding Chuck a roaring lion.

Steven had friends who roamed the plains, like he did. He communicated with other drivers using a high-tech walkie-talkie system. When the call came that a pride of lions had been spotted with a kill, Steven anticipated that Chuck was going to get what he asked for, so we raced across the plains to the spot.

“Just keep a hold of that cat,” Steven warned.

The picture in front of us was not a pretty one.

Five lions surrounded their kill, but they were being taunted by a family of hyenas, the scavengers of the plains, who were hungry and wanted a piece of the kill. The hyenas were faster than the lions and were attempting to lure the lions away from their prize.

Steven parked the safari vehicle as close as he could to the action. We watched as the lions paced back and forth, protecting their bounty. The hyenas darted in and out, making sneak attacks, trying to unnerve the lions. This went on for awhile.

I held Chuck tightly in my arms. He watched in fascination.

“It’s only a matter of time before something gives. Someone is going to make a more daring move.”

You could almost see the hyenas salivating. Life on the plains at this time of year was tough. There had been little rain. This kill was precious. The lions were not willing to share.

Finally, it happened. One of the hyenas, the one I would call the sacrificial hyena, ran straight into the kill and ripped a piece of meat off in his jaws.

The lion closest, the one standing guard, let our a terrific ROAR.
The air shook around us.

The hyena with the meat secured in his jaw stepped back.

The lion ROARED again.

The hyena began to run for his life. Literally.

The lion took off after him.

The meat fell from his jaws, and the hyena managed to escape.

I suspect the other hyenas were supposed to go for the meat in those precious seconds when the kill was left unattended, but they didn’t. Perhaps, the ROAR sounded so fierce, they lost their nerve. Instead all the hyenas slinked off, and the lions were finally left in peace.

“Well, what did you think, Chuck?”

He was purring softly. With Chuck, that is always a good sign.

He was happy.

A lion’s roar on the Serengeti Plain sounds magnificent.

I would have purred, too, if I were a cat.

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Chuck Picnics with the Lions

Lions, tigers, and bears.

Lions, tigers, and bears.

Lions . . .

My rascal cat Chuck has had a thing for getting in touch with his ancestors so while we were on safari in Africa he was on the look-out--at all times--for sightings of lions on the plains. He wanted to see one up close. Face to face. He wanted to look a lion in the eye.

And who knows what he thought would happen. Did he think they spoke the same language? Did he think that a lion would meow in greeting? Or did he just want to hear a lion roar?

But lions are difficult to spot.

For one thing, the grasses are tall on the plains in Kenya, and it is almost impossible to see a pride of lions slinking through the tall grasses. Their magnificent tan coats blend in well with the burnt out color on the plains, and unless the pride is camped out under a tree, in the shade, in a picnic spot, you can be within 100 feet of them and miss them completely.

We were shocked and dismayed at one point, while stopped in our safari vehicle observing a leopard, when we received an alert that a pride of lions was sauntering along--headed right towards us, in fact. Sure enough, within minutes, they walked on by, and we didn’t even see them until they appeared out of nowhere, strutting their stuff, cool and sophisticated past our vehicle.

One day in particular, on safari, we’d been riding around, and not having much luck spotting much of anything, when Steven, our driver announced it was time for lunch. He knew of a tree about twenty miles away that happened to be smack in the middle of the plains AND it happened to have a bunch of picnic tables underneath it. Yes, we would be having a picnic on the African plains.

So off we rode, chugging along on roads, riddled with potholes, that were not meant to be ridden on, getting hungrier by the minute.

I kept my eye on Chuckie, who sat in my lap, staring out, scanning for that tree.

We rode and rode, and I knew that the Chuckster was getting hungrier and hungrier.

“We’re getting closer,” Steven yelled back into the vehicle.

I heard Chuckie’s tummy grumble.

“I can see the tree now,” Steve called.

Chuckie straightened and leaned his head out the window. I knew what he was thinking. He’d be the first one out, the first one to the food. The kid had no manners when it came to chowing down.

Finally, Steven turned off the main path, and we slowed as we wound our way toward the tree. I could see that the grasses under the tree were greener because of the shade. I tightened my grasp on Chuck. He began to wrestle with me.

“Behave yourself,” I hissed.

After the incident with the leopard in the tree, I would have thought Chuck learned his lesson--never just jump out of the safari vehicle until you check what might be up the tree, until you check that it is SAFE.

The vehicle stopped. Chuck broke free and leapt onto the grass, obviously without looking.

Then I saw them.

An entire pride of lions were fast asleep underneath the tree--sprawled out everywhere--some on the grass, some on the benches, some near the fire pit. They were taking their afternoon siesta. And my Chuckie had jumped directly into the center of the action. My little Chuckie.

“What the hell is that cat doing there?” Steven whispered, a bit too loudly, I thought.

Chuckie stayed absolutely still. It took him two seconds to realize the danger. His ancestors were not about to provide him with any heartfelt welcome. In fact, I figured Chuck had about 30 seconds to get out of there before one of his ancestors woke up and devoured him alive.

But the poor kid was scared out of his wits and paralyzed.

It seemed as if the air stilled on the entire African plain.

I heard Steven open the door of the safari vehicle.

“C’mon, Chuck,” I heard myself praying, “Do something.”

Someone must have nudged him on the shoulder for it was as if he suddenly awoke. He began to moonwalk backwards so quietly you saw it but didn’t hear it. Then he swiveled and quicker than a jackrabbit, jumped back into the vehicle.

I pulled him close to me and didn’t say a word.

Oh, there were plenty of things I wanted to say, but why rub it in it. If the kid hadn’t learned his lesson this time around . . . no, the most important thing was the kid had made it back alive.

To read more about Chuck and his adventures, log onto to my website: www.katelutter.com.

Wild Point Island -- soon to be released 2012.

Chuck Howls in the New Year with the Wolves

I guess I will never learn.

Years ago, and I mean years ago, Bob and I visited Yellowstone National Park, and I heard wolves howl for the first time. It was a magical moment that I would never forget. I couldn’t see them, only hear them.

Years later, back in my home state of New Jersey, I heard of a place and of a man, a photographer, to be exact, who had bought some land, fenced it in, and built himself a wolf preserve in Columbia, NJ. You see he had been to Yellowstone, too, and wanted to build a home for some wolves back on the east coast.

He called this place the Lakota Wolf Preserve.

This year I thought what better way to welcome in the New Year than to howl it in with a bunch of wolves . . .

Well, the Chuckster thought so, too.

It’s cold up there . . . in the mountains . . . when the wind blows. So cold in fact, that sometimes your battery in your camera konks out. Your breath blows like smoke in front of your face, and the trail that you follow to where the wolves actually are . . . well, it is so icy, you have to walk it, not take the small “shuttle bus” that is provided for the visitor’s convenience.

Yeah, it’s an experience. But you get to see real wolves up close and personal. You get to hear them howl. There is nothing better than that. Your eyes tear up, and your heart quakes.

I wasn’t sure if Chuck was up to that kind of adventure. After all, these wolves live on a diet of dead road kill and eat approximately 30,000 lbs. of meat a year. When their jaws clamp shut, (they exert 1700 lbs. of pressure as compared to a dog’s 700 lbs.) it sounds a bit like a thunder clap rumbling in the sky. If Chuckie ever ended up in the middle of the preserve--with the wolves--he would become their next dinner. He couldn’t run fast enough or long enough to escape. Wolves can run at a pace of 35 mph for 12 miles and if they slow down to 12 mph, they can stay at it for 8 to 10 hours. The belly boy wouldn’t stand a chance.

Danger would lurk around us. Chuck knew that, and I knew that.

Unfortunately, I had talked about the wolves so often, my almost brave cat couldn’t resist the opportunity. He wanted to look a wolf in the eye--through the chain link fence, of course.

And, as you guessed it, none of this was allowed. At this wolf preserve, twenty five wolves roam an area which resembles their natural habitat. All of these wolves came to the preserve as pups and have grown up there. And although the owner can walk among them, he does so fully cognizant of the risk involved. What he doesn’t need is a cat on the other side of the wire fence stirring up the wolves.

The wolves are lured out of the woods with dog biscuits. The owner shakes the box and the wolves slowly emerge from behind the trees’ shadows.

So, yeah, by being there with the Chuckster I was breaking every kind of rule.

Chuck’s head peeked out of my backpack. He was mesmerized immediately. He wanted to see more. I moved closer to the fence. He craned his neck out farther. Luckily, I was standing in the back and the man in charge was busy talking about the social habits of the wolves and didn’t notice my ever curious Chuck, who stretched out his paw and was attempting to reach through the chain link fence and make contact with a wolf who eagerly was leaning against the fence, wanting to make contact (or was he thinking “meal” with or “of” my Chuckie.

There was no chance of that, but still, what was the kid thinking?

Finally, the moment came that I had been waiting for--setting the stage for the wolves to howl. It didn’t take much. We were instructed to cup our hands around our mouths and HOWL.

First, the man howled.

Then, we howled.

Then the man howled again, only louder.

We howled again, louder.

And this is where, some say, the miracle happened.

THE WOLVES BEGAN TO HOWL.

OMG.

I glanced over at Chuck. Now, he couldn’t howl with the wolves, but he certainly appreciated the moment. With one paw, he swiped at his eyes.

I nudged my ever faithful husband. “Look, the kid is getting all teary eyed.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Bob said. And then he sniffled.

My two boys were losing it.

“It’s okay, Chuckie. It’s a magical thing to hear.”

What a way to bring in the New Year!!!

Chuck Meets Santa

I love Christmas. The singing of carols, the wrapping of presents, the decorations, the hustle and bustle in the stores, the back and forth texting with all my sisters and brothers trying to sort out the menu on Christmas day--all of it.

But this year, as the days ticked by, I dreaded the coming of Christmas day--knowing that Santa wouldn’t have arrived and my Chuck would be disappointed. The man in the red suit wouldn’t have slid down our chimney. Chuck’s present wouldn’t have been deposited underneath the Christmas tree. Chuckie wouldn’t have experienced that moment that all kids love--when they could rip the wrapping off their present and get to the good stuff.

Yes, dread sat on my chest like a hundred pound gorilla.

Chuck was hoping for a box full of cat treats--Temptations--to be exact.

Every night Bob said, “Tell the kid the truth.”

But I couldn’t.

Maybe I wanted to believe that somehow Santa would arrive. That somehow Chuck’s faith in Santa would make it happen.

Crazy right?

And then Christmas Eve was upon us, and Chuck could hardly contain his excitement, confident that Santa was on his way.

I went to bed that night with a heavy heart.

Chuck camped out underneath the tree, determined to stay awake and wait for Santa to arrive with his present.

I tossed and turned in bed, but finally nodded off.

The next morning--Christmas morning--I awoke at the crack of dawn, anxious to see how Chuck was handling his disappointment. I crept down the stairs and into the great room where we have our tree. Chuck was fast asleep, sprawled on top of a large box. Strange, I thought, there weren’t any presents left unopened under the tree last night. We had already opened all of them.

Bob was behind me. “Did you put a present there for Chuck?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I thought you did.”

I tiptoed across the room toward the tree. The wrapping paper didn’t look familiar. Crouching, I stared at the gift tag on the present. In bold letters, someone had printed “Chuck”.

At that very moment, Chuck opened one eye.

“Merry Christmas, Chuckie.” And then I studied him closely. He didn’t look sad or depressed. Or disappointed.

Dare I say it?

“Is that box for you?”

Chuck didn’t answer, but it took him less than a minute to unwrap the present and open the box. Well, there was no doubt this box was from Santa. The box was filled with bags of Temptations. Chuckie’s favorite treat.

Was it possible?

I turned to Bob.

He shrugged.

I mouthed “Santa”?

“Who else?” he said.

“So, Chuckie, you actually got a chance to meet Santa. What did you think? Did he say anything to you? Did you see the reindeer?”

But the Chuckster wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to get one of the bags of treats open. After all, the kid was hungry. And how could he resist all those bags of Temptations?

Chuck Lies In Wait for Santa

“T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house . . .”

I made a big mistake in reading Chuck that poem.

When he heard the tale of how Santa makes the rounds of houses and doles out goodies to good little boys and girls and CATS, of course, he became determined to wait, under our Christmas tree, for Santa’s arrival. Convinced that Santa’s gift to him was going to be, well, STUPENDOUS.

After all, wasn’t he the most wonderful cat in the whole wide world?

I hated to break Chuckie’s bubble, as they say.

I hated to tell the Chuckster the truth that Santa and giving gifts was more of an idea--a fantasy--a symbol of how we should all be generous--not just during the holiday season but all the time. Well, you get the picture.

Frankly, for as smart as Chuck is, I couldn’t quite believe that he believed that some guy would be stuffing himself down our chimney and delivering gifts on Christmas Eve.

Well, Chuck, of course, didn’t believe that part. He had already seen through that ruse and realized that Santa started out from the North Pole on December 1. After all, the whole wide world is a big place and those reindeer can travel only so far on any given evening.

So, imagine my Chuck, with Ella--his twin sister by his side--snuggled under the Christmas tree, night after night, waiting for Santa to arrive. Imagine him waiting in breathless anticipation for the man in the red suit with the long white beard.

“What are we going to do?” I asked my husband, confident that Santa wasn’t going to arrive on schedule, as the belly boy believed.

“Tell him the truth.”

“I can’t do that.”

“He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

Was there some way to avoid the inevitable?

I decided to have a heart to heart with Chuckie. I took him upstairs to my writing room. He often sits on my lap while I’m working.

“Chuck, the holiday season isn’t all about presents. It’s about being thankful for what you already have.”

The kid eyed me suspiciously.

“For example, when you were born, you were homeless. But you were lucky to find a home with us. You and Ella. And your two brothers were also adopted. And now you live in a nice house and . . .”

The squirming started. When Chuck is bored, he begins to squirm. Big time.

I decided to try another tact, realizing there was no way that I could tell the truth about Santa or the lack of his physical existence in this modern world.

“The truth is, Chuck, you will never see Santa. He only arrives when you are fast asleep. I’ve known kids to try to stay awake, but they can’t.”

He jumped off my lap then and scooted down the stairs.

I followed.

There he sat vigil underneath the Christmas tree.

“Chuck, that’s what I call being too stubborn for your own darned good--”

“Leave him alone,” my husband said. “Maybe Santa is coming after all.”

I shot my husband one of my famous looks of exasperation.

My Chuckie wanted to meet Santa. See Santa with his own two eyes. How the heck was I going to arrange that?

Years ago one of my brothers dressed up as Santa, but there was no way he was sliding down our chimney. And not for a cat!

I did not want to see the kid disappointed.

Talk about pressure.

“Well, you have one week to come up with a fake Santa that will fool your cat. One week. One week before Chuck learns there is no Santa . . .”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Chuck Likes Flamingos and the Color Pink

It may be hard to believe that a cat likes movies, but it’s true. No, not hom e movies, but we’re talking Hollywood big, blockbuster-type movies. Action movies. And if there is an animal or two or three or four, well, the more--the better. Which may explain why the Chuckster would pick Out of Africa as one of his favorite sit you down and eat a snack while you are watching type movie.

He loved to see those lions on the screen--his ancestors, of course.

But, if the truth be told, nothing beat those flamingos--all gathered in a group on the shore--so much pink . . .

On safari in Kenya, when Bob and I had the chance to visit some of the places where Out of Africa was filmed, Chuck couldn’t wait until we got to Lake Nakuru National Park, which is a sanctuary, a very famous one, for the flamingo. Not that Chuck knew anything about that. All he knew was that he was going to see thousands of pink birds, and he liked the color pink.

Who knew?

When I write thousands, I’m not exaggerating. There are times when Lake Nakuru hosts close to a million flamingos.

We arrived by safari vehicle in the park and immediately noticed two large rhinoceros who were sunbathing not one hundred feet away from the flamingos, who were spread out along the shoreline, very busy, it seemed to me, in search of lunch.

What attracts the flamingos to Lake Nakuru is the shallow water and the abundance of algae that grows along the shore. Once again, it is all about food.

But having two rhino so close was not good. Well, I suppose, it could have been worse considering that the park has offered 25 black rhino and 70 white rhino a home there.

But still.

Chuckie didn’t seem to notice. He was staring, quite mesmerized, at the flamingo. All that pink.

And you guessed it.

Chuck does not like to stay put when there is action to be had.

Before I could issue my standard warning, he jumped out of my backpack and was already scampering toward the shoreline--due to pass one of the rhino, who looked to be snoozing.

But who knows when a rhino is really snoozing?

I certainly didn’t.

Close to panicking, I was determined to maintain my cool.

Then I spotted a straggly creature slinking along the shoreline, heading in the same direction as my Chuckie.

“OMG. That looks just like a . . .”

Before I had a chance to say the word, Bob, my ever loyal and observant husband, had noticed the danger. “Those darned hyena are everywhere.”

“Do hyenas eat flamingos?” I asked.

He frowned because there was an even greater problem.

“Or cats,” I added.

“Maybe the Chuckster will blend in.”

It was a terrible joke. Chuckie is beige and white, not pink. He had fur, not feathers. And from the hyenas’s point of view, a much tastier snack.

And it was windy. By now the flamingos had spotted that hyena and were squawking and flapping their wings, and desperately clearing a path away from him.

All the clatter woke the snoozing rhino who began to lumber toward the hyena OR was he moving toward my cat?

The hyena spotted the rhino and made a quick detour to the other side of the shore, but Chuckie didn’t seem to notice the looming rhino.

Entranced by all that pink, Chuck moved closer and closer to the flamingo as the rhino moved closer and closer to Chuck.

Something had to give.

I was just about to run forward when in one burst of panic, the flamingo--all in unison--took off--squawking and flapping their wings.

Startled, Chuck stepped back.

But more importantly, the rhino lost interest. Casually, or so it seemed to me, he retraced his steps back to the same spot and took up sunbathing again.

Chuck was safe.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

Those darned flamingos.

That darn cat.

Chuck Wrangles with the Antique Mailbox

The big question I’ve been asking myself lately is—do cats even belong in hotels—and I mean, big, fancy, knock your socks off—hotels??

Our decision to stay for a few nights in Boston necessitated that we do our research. We wanted an old hotel, a hotel with character, a hotel that had a history, one that was located on or close by to the Freedom Trail so that we could get our fill of history while we were there.

Hotel X fit the criteria. Grand and luxurious, nicknamed the old Gray Lady, it even had obnoxiously small bathrooms that dated back to the turn of the century so we could feel duly tortured while we admired the beauty around us.

Not that Chuckie cared about the bathrooms.

He is one social cat.

And while we were there, out hotel was hosting some kind of convention—what seemed like a trillion college-aged students converged there for some kind of competition—which meant HALF a trillion beautiful girls.

Now that is something Chuckie would notice.

And that is how the entire sordid mess with the antique mailbox thing happened.

The Chuckster, who sometimes seems incapable of minding his own feline business, overheard a bunch of girls admiring one of the many antique mailboxes they have in the hotel lobby.

“Do you think they still work?” one of the girls asked.

“Do you mean—can you post a letter?” her friend inquired.

“A real letter?” a third girl chimed in.

“What did you think I meant—an email?”

They laughed.

Now Chuck was listening in, and as he was stationed at an adjacent table near the mailbox in question, I saw him dart a glance at the mailbox, as if he, too, were wondering whether it was for real or for show.

And then it happened--the moment when regular Chuck turned into Hero Chuck.

He hopped down onto the floor, and without a bye your leave, scampered over to the mailbox and leapt up. His front paws somehow managed to grab hold of the opening where you would put the letters in.

I watched in horror as he stuck his sniffing nose into the opening. His entire head and face disappeared as I supposed he was investigating whether there were any real letters in there.

All I could think of was that movie As Good As It Gets when Jack Nicholson throws Greg Kinnear’s dog down the garbage disposal.

Would that be the eventual fate of my Chuck? Would he somehow mysteriously slide himself down the antique mailbox slot?

Then I realized CHUCK WAS STUCK!

In the antique mailbox.

The girls realized it, too.

Suddenly the four of us were gathered around trying to wrestle the poor meowing belly boy out from the narrow mail slot.

We finally unstuck him, and Chuck got his fair share of kisses and hugs from the very grateful co-eds, who were amazed that a “hero-cat" was even in the hotel lobby.

That near tragic misadventure didn’t deter us from inquiring from one of the bellboys, “Do these mailboxes really work?”

“Yes, they do. Is that a CAT?”

Needless to say, the Chuckster spent the rest of the day lounging in our room, safe from prying eyes, for, even though he wouldn’t admit it, the “belly boy” was no match for the unusually narrow slot of the antique mailbox!