Chuck Plays the Slots And . . . Almost Loses His Fur

I don’t talk about it much, but the Chuckster is a Jersey boy, through and though. That is why March will be devoted to my fair state of New Jersey and most specifically to Atlantic City.

Recently, Chuckie decided he would pay a visit to the Jersey shore AND no, not to see if he could catch a glimpse of SNOOKIE--get that thought out of your head.

He’s more sophisticated than that.

The kid had compiled a list of typical touristy things to do.

And number one on that list was PLAY THE SLOT MACHINES.

Yeah, I know the Chuckster is way under age to play the slots, but let’s face it, considering Chuck is a cat, age was the least of his problems.

And because the casino was sure to be mega crowded, we figured it would take some careful calculations to sneak the belly boy into a rather famous casino down in AC so that no one would know he was there. We had to think long and hard about how we would accomplish such a feat.

I mean, no one brings their DOGS, OR CATS, OR HAMSTERS, for that matter with them, when they gamble. So this was going to be a first. I felt sure there were cameras-what I would call spy cameras--all over the joint. If Chuckie dared to peek out of my smart bag, he would have to be wearing some kind of disguise--floppy hat, anyone?

We talked this out at length before we walked into our preferred casino (which will remain nameless.)

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” I said to the kid, while we sat in our luxurious room on the 43rd floor overlooking the beautiful Atlantic City ocean. “Getting you down to the casino is no problem. I can walk in there. You’ll be hidden in my smart bag, as usual. Then I’ll find the least crowded slot machine.”

Chuckie tilted his head as if he were listening intently. Which was a good sign.

I continued. “But you’ll have to wear some kind of hat. A disguise.” Suddenly, a panicked look shot into his eyes.

“I know. This is not the way you imagined it, but the casino folks have spy cameras everywhere. Once you peek your head out, if they see you, you’ll get kicked out. You don’t want that to happen, right?”

A casual shrug from the kid let me know he was following my argument even if he wasn’t totally buying it.

“You can sit on my lap, get an eye-view, and use your paw to . . .” But we had already discussed how to play the slots.

D-TIME was three o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t thrilled about gambling in the pre-dawn, but it seemed reasonable to play with the least amount of people wandering around. And sure enough, our trip down the elevator was uneventful.

We walked through the lobby area and into the casino and no one gave us a second glance. Chuck is very disciplined in such moments, and barely uttered a whimper.

I was making my way to the back part of the casino, having scoped out the place the day before, looking for the least busy area, but in all honesty, at three o’clock, one place was as good as the next.

I plopped myself down at a slot machine on the end and inserted my GOLD CARD. Oh, yeah, I’m a real professional and figured I might as well rack up time on the card with the Chuckster gambling.

The most amazing part was that the kid didn’t seem nervous at all. Maybe because he was playing with MY money. I had flipped him a $20.00, and we started at Coyote Moon, but quickly mover to Poker.

We were cruising along--losing at a reasonable pace, and I do believe Chuck was having a good time, when suddenly a man popped out from nowhere. Now, maybe, he had a bit too much to drink, but he didn’t seem too surprised to see Chuck sitting on my lap.

“Hey, there, little fellow,” he said. “Having any luck?”

Chuck, of course, engrossed in the game, completely ignored him.

I knew it was too late to shove Chuck inside my bag, so I acted as if it wasn’t unusual to have a cat playing the slots. I smiled. “He’s not very good at the slots, I’m afraid.”

The man careened closer. “If I can give you a word of advice. Does he have his own GOLD CARD?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, thinking was the guy kidding, but no, he seemed totally serious.

I smiled again. “No. He’s playing with my husband’s card.”

“How many GOLD CARDS do you have?” he asked.

“Two.”

“But do you have your own card? In your own name?”

I was trying to figure out what the guy was getting at--one GOLD CARD or two GOLD CARDS. What was the difference? Plus I was keeping a half eye on Chuck, watching his paw hit the button. “Why?”

“Because you can rack up points faster if you both play under one name. That’s the mistake me and my wife made . . .” And then he proceeded to tell me a long winded story about how his wife had insisted on two separate cards, which turned out to be A BAD IDEA.

When he finally finished talking, I thanked him profusely for the advice. By this time, Chuckie had gambled away every last cent. He was lucky his fur coat was attached, or he would have lost that too.

“Well, kid, what do you say?”

Before Chuck could say anything, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I whipped around, just in time to confront the same “advice man,” who now was rip-roaring mad.

“Well, I’m sure sorry I came over and talked to you and your cat,” he said, a bit too loudly. “Somebody ripped off my machine. While I was standing here talking to you, I was robbed. $500.00. Can you believe it?’

Mr. Advice Man turned and pointed to his slot machine across the aisle. That’s when I spotted two casino personnel drifting our way.

“Duck, Chuck. Into the bag. And don’t say a word.”

Mr. Advice Man sprinted over to his machine. I could just hear it now. “I was over there telling this lady and her CAT . . . and somebody . . .”

It was time to go.

With Chuck safely back into my smartbag, I remembered to remove my GOLD CARD and skeddadled back to my hotel room, passing a magnificent statue along the way, who reminded me of a certain Roman general.

“I’m thinking tomorrow,” I said to Chuck, “we can try walking the Boards or . . . ” and that’s when Chuckie came up with another brilliant idea.

Chuck Eyes the Bikini Girls at the Villa

How does a cat gain the reputation of being a rascal?

It can easily happen when it has something to do with bikini girls.

I am often amazed at what Chuck knows and yet pretends not to know--when directly quizzed. For example.

In the middle of Sicily, in the middle of a green valley, sits a Roman villa by the name of Casale near a town called Piazza Armerina. This villa has 63 rooms and some believe it was originally designed as an imperial hunting palace, outfitted with an intricate heating and cooling system, indoor plumbing, swimming pool and 42 colorful floors of mosaic tiles estimated to have taken 21,000 days of work (if it’s true that a worker needs six days to complete a square meter of mosaic tile.)

Now you might be thinking--so? I am sure that Sicily is chock filled with villas, but this villa is special. Why?

Well, for one thing the floor tiles in this villa depict scenes from a lifestyle that no longer exists--a very comfortable middle class Roman family life of over 1500 years ago--and the only reason the villa still survives today is that it was destroyed by an earthquake and then covered (and thus preserved) by a landslide.

The earthquake occurred somewhere around 346 AD. The landslide in 1161 AD.

Chuckie decided--when we were in Sicily--that he wanted to see this villa. Was it because it was recognized as a UNESCO world heritage site? Was it because it was considered a “famous archaeological site of cultural tourism”?

When I mentioned these facts, of course, the Chuckster nodded in agreement, a kind of yah, yah, yah. But I know Chuckie. I know how he thinks.

It seems that the truth was a lot more interesting. Chuckie had seen somewhere, I suspect on the History Channel, that this villa had a floor mosaic of BIKINI GIRLS, and he wanted to see those girls for himself.

Now, we’re not talking Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue, but we are talking about a mosaic that depicted women in bikini bathingsuits that went back over fifteen hundred years ago. Could it be true?

The security at The Roman Villa of Casale is very strict. Several years ago tourists were allowed to wander from room to room and actually throw water on the tile floors so they could more clearly see the mosaic tiles which sprung to seeming life when the outer layer of what appeared to be dust was washed away. One day a tourist threw acid, not water, on one of the floors--irreparably destroying that particular floor--so tourists are no longer allowed to throw anything down on the floor. As one wanders from room to room, it is difficult to imagine what the floors must have looked like so many years ago.

Chuck and I kept a very low profile. Luckily, we arrived toward the end of the day. It was in November and as we began to lose the sun, I figured it would be easier for Chuck to peer out of my backpack, where he was hiding, and catch a glimpse of tile floor he wanted the most to see without being seen himself. I was nervous that if one of the Italian guards spotted us, we would be booted off the villa’s property.

Finally, we made it into the Bikini Girl Room, one of the rooms which surrounded the built in swimming pool area that was in the center of the villa. For a moment we were alone. Chuck popped his head out and snuck a peek at the mosaic floor. He remained absolutely still, and I could tell he was impressed.

“There they are, Chuck,” I said. “The bikini girls. Over 1,500 years old.”

He pointed to the girl in the red suit. She was obviously his favorite.

Just as I was snapping the photo as a keepsake, I heard noise from the hallway. A guard appeared. “Signora. Signora.”

It was easy to tell by the frown on his face and the multitude of hand motions that he was ushering me--I mean “us” out of the room.

Luckily, Chuck had ducked back under cover.

As we sauntered outside, I listened for the usual purring that I expected to hear--but this time there was no purr, only a kind of snore.

The kid was already in “dream land,” no doubt, sunbathing on some Italian beach somewhere, flanked on either side by the BIKINI GIRLS.

Chuck Pays Tribute to the Cyclops

In some ways cats are like little boys. When Chuck first heard about the Cyclops--that mythical creature who captured Ulysses and trapped him in a cave until he devised a way to escape--my rascal cat became enthralled with the idea of a Cyclops. He wanted to know more. He wanted to see a real Cyclops. And when I explained that Cyclops didn’t exist anymore--that he was part of ancient lore--he wanted to see where he had lived.

Which meant that after we trekked up Mt. Etna to see the flowing lava underneath the earth, we took a side trip to a small but beautiful town called Accitrezza in Sicily. According to myth, this is where the Cyclops lived. Near the sea. This is where Ulysses met him and this is where the cave sat where Ulysses was imprisoned.

Chuck knew the entire story.

He’d heard the tale of the Cyclops, the creature who had only one eye in the middle of his head. He knew that Ulysses and his men had finally escaped imprisonment by flinging rocks at that eye and blinding the Cyclops. That’s why we had traveled to Accitrezza--to see the boulders in the sea--the same boulders that Ulysses and his men had thrown on that fateful day when they had hurled them through the air at the Cyclops and regained their freedom.

When Chuck and I arrived on the spot, we stood there in awe and fascination. Sure enough, if you stand on the shore’s edge, you can clearly see the boulders. Thousands of years later, you can still see them resting there as a testament to the cunning and the brute strength of Ulysses’ men.

“Okay, then,” I said to the Chuckster. “Now you’ve seen the boulders. You know the story. I know you’re impressed. What do you say to a nice gelato at that store over there.” I pointed behind us to a nice mom and pop gelateria.

But Chuck did not glance behind. He waited, perched like a bird on a rock, staring into the sea, at those boulders.

This was not a good sign.

I know the Chuckster.

When he puts his mind to something, he is rarely dissuaded.

“What is it, Chuck?”

Now, of course, cats can’t talk, but this cat of mine always seems to find a way to let me know exactly what he wants. I crouched next to him and followed his line of sight. He was staring directly at those boulders. That’s when I felt sick. I had to hope he wasn’t thinking that he could somehow leap onto one of those treacherous rocks. For what reason, I didn’t know, but it was such a Chuck thing to do.

And sure enough, the moment the thought popped into my head, I could see his hind legs bounce as if that was exactly what he was thinking.

“NO!” No, you don”t, I thought as I grabbed hold of him. If he jumped out there, all I could imagine was him being swept away by a wave and that would be the end of Chuck and my weekly blogging.

When I reached hold of him, I seemed to break him out of some kind of trance. Or did I break him out of the siren’s call?

Chuck meowed.

I held him close.

“Let’s go get that gelato,” I finally said.

Later that evening, back in our hotel, I caught Chuck in his usual meditative position--on his back, his paws curled forward, eyes closed, but just as I went to snap the photo, his eyes shot open.

What was he thinking about--Ulysses and the Cyclops?

Poor Chuck.

The kid needs more adventure in his life . . . or more girls.























Chuck Falls In Love

I have never tried to deny the truth--Chuck has always had an eye for the ladies.

As we’ve traveled around the world, he’s noticed the beautiful girls and CATS wherever we’ve gone.

He’s quite a flirt when he wants to be.

A cat about town.

So I shouldn’t have been that surprised when I realized that Chuckie had fallen in love with a cute little number who lives at a privately owned cat shelter that I volunteer at on Fridays.

Now just to be purrfectly clear.

Chuck is not the volunteer cat type.

He is much too busy traversing the country and the world and when he’s home, he likes to stay put and eat and sleep. We don’t call him the “belly boy” for nothing. But . . . part of my volunteering includes writing about some of the cats who live at Tabby’s Place, a wonderful organization for cats located in New Jersey.

One of those cats just happens to be a beautiful girl named Chickadee. I’d taken a few photos of her and brought them home with me.

And . . . Chuck had noticed.

Yeah, I had caught him actually staring at her pic on my computer screen.

“What’s up, Chuck?” I asked him one evening.

And, of course, he pretended to be staring off into space, because the rascal cat is often evasive and sometimes uncooperative, especially when it comes to his personal life.

I ignored his attempts to ignore me and plowed along. “This is Chickadee.”

I saw his ears perk up at the name. He couldn’t help but focus in to get a better look.

“Is that your tail wagging?” I asked.

The tail immediately stopped wagging.

But I knew the score and could see that Chuck was falling fast for Chickadee.

With Valentine’s Day around the corner, and me being the incurable romantic I am, I had an instant idea.

“Chuck, why not send her a valentine. Let her know how you feel? I have just the one here.” I showed him a cute valentine I had just bought at Hallmark. It had the picture of an orange and white cat that looked remarkably like him on the cover, with an arrow shot through his little cat heart.

It didn’t take that much persuading for the Chuckster to put his pawprint inside. For good measure, I included a photo of him inside the valentine so she could catch of glimpse of just how cute he was!

Well, the days went by. Valentine’s Day came and went. Chickadee got the valentine from Chuck, and Chuck checked the mailbox everyday as if he hoped she would respond. But she didn’t.

Finally, I felt as if I should say something to him.

“Chuck, about Chickadee. I don’t think she’s interested in you.”

He cocked his head to the side and looked a bit confused.

“Chickadee. I’m talking about Chickadee.”

He shrugged.

It seems he was already over her and had set his sights on someone new.

You see I write for two cats at Tabby’s Place and little did I realize but Chuck was now checking out the other beautiful cat. Her name is Colleen, and her eyes were just as green as Chickadee’s.

I guess I should have been happy that the Chuckster’s heart wasn’t broken, but I couldn’t keep myself from saying, “Next time you can buy your own valentine to send her.”

Chuck Watches the Lava Flow

I should have known that when Chuck started watching the History Channel, we were all going to be in trouble.

Fast forward. We are in Sicily on the Taormina side, and if you know anything about Sicily, you know that they have an active volcano that seems to be forever erupting--Mt. Etna.

Now, relax, they tell me, because there is no chance of a full-fledged eruption like the one they had back in the 1600’s when the lava flowed down for thirteen years straight, reached all the way to the town of Catania, completely destroying it, and well . . . you can imagine the rest of the story.

These eruptions--which occur practically on a nightly basis--are baby eruptions. And, I have to admit, when we stayed at the Villa Diadora, we would go up to the rooftop at night and gaze over in the direction of Mt. Etna and watch the lava flowing down the mountain. Pretty cool sight.

But Chuckie wasn’t content to watch the lava from afar.

He wanted to see the lava close up.

And, yes, it was possible. But you needed to get to the top of the mountain.

Were we crazy??

First, we boarded a bus which could only take us so far. Then we hopped on a cable car, the kind people board who plan to go skiing, and up we went--higher and higher. Now, at this time, Chuckie had his eyes plastered shut, because if you read my blog faithfully, you know my rascal cat has some trouble with heights--does anyone remember the Eifle Tower incident?
Finally, we climbed into an all terrain vehicle which proceeded even further up the mountain.

When we arrived, we were assaulted by the terrible odor of rotten eggs.

But we weren’t there yet. Oh, no. We had to hike for another 25 minutes across what appeared to be a moon scape. We were hiking across a wind blown, freezing landscape, covered with lava which had hardened.

Finally, we reached the spot. A crack in the earth where we could peer down and see FLOWING LAVA INSIDE THE EARTH.

Now the earth beneath our feet was like black glass.

“Be careful,” they said to us in Italian. “If you fall, you will cut your hands.”

Ha. That was the least of our problems.

The crack in the earth was located on a precipice, which you had to climb to the top of in order to see anything.

When it was my turn to peer over and look down into the hole, there I was, camera in one hand, CAT peering over my shoulder, and one too casual Italian Mt. Etna worker grasping my other hand, as I leaned over and tried to snap a photo.

The heat from the hole was so intense, my make-up melted off my face.

The surface of the earth was like black glass.

The whiskers on Chuckie’s face were singed.

For one horrible moment, I imagined everything going wrong--dropping my camera into the pit, dropping my CAT into the pit, slipping into the pit MYSELF.

As I stumbled away from the cauldron, I slipped, of course, and my hands smacked against the black glass-like ground. Ouch. Blood ooozed out.

But this time I couldn’t blame the Chuckster.

Yeah, he had egged me on to see the flowing lava, but the sight of that red hot liquid mass flowing along, inside the earth, was breathtaking.

As we tramped back to the all terrain vehicle, Chuckie snuggled close to me, and I knew what he was trying to say--this trip had made up for that other one--where I had tried to ply the kid with a bit of culture--you know, the Vincent Van Gogh semi-tour/almost cemetery one.

Oh, yeah and even I had to admit--this was way cooler!

Chuck Almost Meets Vincent Van Gogh

As my rascal cat and I travel around the world, there are times when I am forced to say, “Chuck, we are going here. For culture. For enlightenment. We can’t always go to places just for fun.”

While we were in France, sailing down the Seine River, we stopped in a lovely riverside town--Auvers-sur-Oise--which just happened to be the last place that Vincent Van Gogh, the famed artist, lived and painted. I knew this and Chuck didn’t. But I had noticed that recently Chuck had shown a modicum of interest in art. He had stared at, if briefly, one of Van Gogh’s paintings--his most famous one, in fact, “The Starry Night.”

The opportunity, therefore, had presented itself.

If the kid liked the painting, if he seemed interested in it, why not shove a bit of culture down his throat and acquaint him with Van Gogh’s life and struggles. After all, I figured, Chuck, my very privileged and now pampered cat, had come a long way from his once homeless situation, and I didn’t want him to forget that life can be hard.

Vincent Van Gogh led a tortured life.

My plan was this---do the typical tour and share Vincent’s struggles along the way.

We began with the house where Van Gogh rented a room and painted. We passed the local church. As we walked, I talked. Chuck listened, or seemed to be listening, but you never know with him. Then we headed out to the cemetery, where Van Gogh is buried with his brother by his side, which is a bit outside of the main area of town, up a hill and through a field. Because we were alone, I let Chuckie out of the backpack, and he scampered beside me, enjoying his romp. The cemetery is to the right. But when it came time to make that right, Chuck kept on going.

“Chuck, the graves are over here.”

He pretended not to hear me.

“Chuck.”

Laughter bubbled up behind me. I had company.

Now, in all honesty, I try not to advertise the fact that I have a cat with me. I stopped walking and pretended to be fiddling with my backpack. The couple passed by enroute to the cemetery.

“Chuck,” I called into the tall grass, but he had disappeared.

That darn cat.

It was clear to me now that the Chuckster had no interest, whatsoever, in seeing Vincent Van Gogh’s gravesite. So I popped over, admired the gravestones myself, took a photo, and returned for my recalcitrant cat.

“All right. We don’t have to go see them. I get your point.”

Like magic, the bellyboy re-appeared as if nothing had happened. Cool as a--you guessed it--cat. Grooming himself the way cats do when they’re pretending nothing is amiss.

We headed back to town and even poked our heads into a local restaurant that pays tribute to Van Gogh in their own way by sporting a mural on their wall of Kirk Douglas, who played Vincent Van Gogh in the Hollywood movie. I thought the mural was great. Chuck, of course, was not impressed. Oh, yeah, he glanced at it but seemed more interested in sniffing the peanuts on the counter.

And when the shopkeeper told us that there is a festival every May in honor of Van Gogh, Chuck snorted.

But to keep the record straight, Chuckie still likes “The Starry Night.” He just doesn’t give a fig about Van Gogh, the artist.

Chuck Almost Swims with the Hippos

In the heart of Africa, on the Masai Mara Game Reserve, an extension of the great Serengeti Plain, which runs through Kenya and Tanzania, the most dangerous animal isn’t the lion or the leopard, the elephant or the buffalo . . . it is the giant hippo.

More tourists are injured by the hippo than any other animal.

On safari, if you decide you want to see a hippo in person, you are escorted not only by your regular guide, who carries at best a walkie-talkie for protection--the theory being that information is your best ally against danger--but you are also escorted by an armed soldier who carries a machine gun, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

Although hippos spend almost all of their time submerged in the water to keep cool, in the nearest river or lake or mangrove swamp, they can get themselves on land and in your face faster than you can make your grand escape.

Despite the inherent danger, Chuckie, my fearless and rascal cat, decided he wanted to see hippos swimming in the river. This dream of his was born after we visited the animal orphanage at the Mt. Kenya Safari Club and Chuckie met a baby hippo and saw him smile.

So late one morning we trekked down the path from our safari vehicle toward the water with Steven our driver, James our guide, and, of course, Botswain, our trusty armed soldier who came along JUST IN CASE. Botswain was the one in the know. He knew where the hippos were most likely going to be. He knew how close we could get to the water’s edge without falling in or attracting the attention of said hippos. He was our “go to man,” and we were lucky to have him.

Because the hippo, for those of you who know nothing about this magnificent beast, is considered the most aggressive creature in the world and the most dangerous animal in Africa. The hipppo is the third largest land mammal, after the elephant and the rhinoceros, weighing one half to three tons, but it can easily out run a human and has been clocked at short distances running nineteen m.p.h. Even though it closely resembles the pig, its closest living relative is the whale. The name hippo, short for hippopotamus, comes from the ancient Greek meaning “river horse.”

Of course, Chuck knew none of these interesting facts. He just wanted to see a hippo in action. And, I have to admit, I was curious, too. And a bit on edge.

The path that led from the Serengeti Plains to the river’s edge was about a quarter of a mile. As we neared the river, I kept a look-out for lions and leopards. I didn’t know quite what to expect.

But there they were. Their roundish heads popped in and out of the water. Occasionally we were lucky enough to see their backs float on top, but usually the hippos were totally submerged, keeping cool, while we humans and CAT stood on the shore and stared and sweated.

Chuck peeked out of my backpack.

For once, he behaved himself.

Feeling brave myself, I inched closer to the water and grabbed onto a tree limb to support myself so I could get a closer look. I wanted to snap a few good pictures.

Curious, Chuck leaned out further than he probably should have.

Suddenly, my foot slipped, or perhaps, the ground underneath me wasn’t as solid as I thought.

I lost my balance and began sliding toward the water.

Now, let me explain.

I was standing on a ledge that tipped out over the river.

And I was being careful.

When I slipped, I didn’t go sliding into the water. No, I slipped and slid maybe a foot, but it felt like I was about to keep on going--me, the camera, and the CAT into the water, into the mouths of the MOSTLY herbivorous hippos.

At that moment I didn’t know if that meant they ate meat or not.

I screamed.

Chuckie ducked back into my backpack.

I spotted at least one hippo pop his head out and look AT ME.

Botswain came running.

I regained my equilibrium and didn’t slide in, but Botswain did not look happy. (I suspected he had never actually shot a hippo in his life.)

As we hiked back to the safari vehicle (yes, I was very embarassed), I whispered to my rascal cat, “I blame you for this. This was your idea. If it hadn’t been for you--”

Then I stopped and realized the kid was going to be the death of me yet and what was I thinking to have brought him along with me anyway on SAFARI and wasn’t I just setting myself up for more crazy adventures?

Well, wasn’t I?