Rambo Chuck and the Lion's Roar

    Who would have guessed that a lion's roar could turn my mild- mannered orange and white rascal cat Chuck into Rambo at your typical wild animal park? 

    Everything that day started out normal. My sisters and I are all inveterate animal lovers--owning cats and dogs. Watching animal shows on TV. So it's no surprise that if there's a zoo within a 100 mile radius, we will want to go to see the animals. 

    That morning my four sisters and I (and Chuck, of course) drove to a wild animal park called Paws and Claws. We were in a particularly goofy mood. It felt good to be outside, wandering around and not have to wear masks and worry about catching the dreaded covid virus. Besides, this zoo had a good reputation for treating the animals well. The cages were kept clean. The animals were well fed. And there was a fantastic gift shop!

    Before we even snatched our first glimpse of an animal, as we were still traipsing down the connecting path from the gift shop to the actual zoo part, a sound reverberated through the air that shook us to the core. It sounded like part thunder and part end of world. If you've never heard a lion roar, in real life I mean, you can't begin to understand how a deep throated lion's roar carries for miles. The air shakes around you. When I was on safari in Kenya, Africa, on the plains, a lion's roar put the fear of God into you. But even here in the supposed safety of a zoo, the roar can stop you in your tracks.

    "What was that?" one of my sisters asked.

    "I don't know, but it sounded like . . ."

     I knew what it was. I'd heard that sound before, and I could only hope to God that the lion who roared so ferociously was safely behind bars. 

     Even though I knew what it was, I didn't know what it meant. I glanced down at Chucky. He'd stopped in his tracks. His ears perked up. He looked around as if he was expecting something to happen. In that instant, his entire manner changed. I should have noticed the not so subtle change in his personality, but I didn't. You know that moment on screen when Clark Kent becomes Superman. When Bruce Wayne becomes Batman. But this was real life and for Chucky, he didn't throw off his fur and don another costume. 

      My sisters continued their walk down the path and were easily distracted. They had a chance to show off their silly side by pretending to be kangaroos. I tried shrug off the unsettled feeling of the roar and to even get Chucky to pose, but he would have none of it.

     His avoidance of all things fun should have tipped me off that he had something else in mind. I have to admit, most times, he is one step ahead of me. 

      

  After the kangaroo posing, we got serious about visiting all the usual suspects that you expect to meet in a zoo. Our cameras were clicking away. We were oohing and aahing and moving along at an unnaturally quick pace, mostly spurred on by Chucky. 

    

     To see the entire zoo takes about two hours (not counting the gift shop time.) Chuck seemed happy to be outside and sniff along. He seemed somewhat interested in all the animals, but in a curious kind of way he maintained his distance. I did my best to keep my eye on him. 

     At one point, the path we were following forked. Chuck took the less obvious path. He began to move faster and faster. That's when I knew something was up. 

    I glanced behind me. My sisters had stopped to watch the monkeys. 

    "Chuck, wait up."

    But he didn't.

   Suddenly we were at the lion's cage. Several thoughts flew through my mind. #1 Chucky looked like he was headed straight for the cages. #2 Lions usually don't roar just to roar.  #3 There was more than one lion in that cage and they looked restless.

    

     By this time I was out of breath. My imagination was running wild. One gigantic lion's paw reaching out of the cage and strangling my cat, for example, was just one tragic thought I had. Did he look like a snack to them? Were these animals really all that well fed? Were they roaring for more food?

    

      By this time, Chuck reached the lion's cage. He began to paw the part that held the lock. Not in some half casual way, but he pawed that lock the way he pawed our stair carpeting at home, like he was trying to rip it to shreds. When that didn't work, he began to cat-body slam the cage, hoping that it would suddenly disintegrate. 

    He was trying to free the lions from the cage! Crazy cat. He was obviously affected by the fact that he and the lion shared the same lineage. His pawing caught one of the lion's attention who ambled over. Chuck meowed. I thought to myself--if this lion roars again, I will have a heart attack.

       But, no, the lion came over just to sniff. He had no intention of eating Chuck. I think maybe he even shrugged as if to say: "No use, buddy. I can see what you're trying to do, but they really lock us in here." 

     And for good reason.

    A few seconds later the lion drifted back and laid down for a snooze. 

    I picked Chucky up and carried him away from the cage. 

    "What were you thinking?"

    Before he had a chance to meow, my sisters appeared. 

    "Don't get too close to that cage," one of them advised. "Those lions look dangerous."

    "Yeah, remember that roar we heard?"

     "You see," I whispered. "And you were trying to set the dangerous lions free? They may look like you, and you may think they're just big cats, Chuck, but trust me there's more than meets the eye."

      After all, a roar is way different than a meow. And twice as dangerous!

    

Chuck and the Penguin

    For too many years, back in the day, when I was an elementary principal, every year like clockwork my second graders would go on their class trip to Jenkinson Aquarium.  They would board the bus, teachers and classroom mothers in tow, for the too long trip down to Point Pleasant Beach. 

    Main reason--to see the penguins. Sure, there were other attractions. And the kids even went to nearby Point Pleasant Beach to collect shells and eat their lunch, but nothing could beat the lure of the penguin. 

    One year, a penguin came to us, and you would have thought Santa Claus himself arrived laden with gifts. The excitement floated up the hallways into my office. The penguin was let loose to wander from one classroom to another. What a sight to watch that magnificent animal, dressed like a butler, waddle into a classroom to the gasps and screams of second graders. 

    So how can I resist when my sister Karen, who was renting a house down the Jersey shore near the aquarium, suggests I come over for the day. 

    "We can go to Jenkinson Aquarium," she says, quite casually.

    My heart starts racing as all the memories of my second graders flood back. "Did you say Jenkinson Aquarium?"

    "Sure, it's not too far from where we're staying."

    It is the perfect plan because the weather that day is promising to be iffy. A nice quiet ride down to my sister's.  A fun visit to an aquarium. My lovely niece Sam promises to go with us.What can go wrong?

    Chucky meows near my feet. 

    "Oh, no," I say. "An aquarium is no place for a cat." Fish will be too much of a temptation for  a rascal cat to be on his best behavior. "I'm going solo on this trip."

    Or so I think. He'd heard the penguin stories over the years. He knows darn well what a penguin is. He's even watched March of the Penguins so he knows their death defying story of survival. 

    It would have been a perfect visit. Jenkinson Aquarium is a cool place crowded with moms and kids. A healthy vibrant kind of energy pushes you along from exhibit to exhibit. Through the murky glass we see turtles and seals.

    And all kinds of strange looking fish.

    

   Of course, as we ooh and aah,  Chucky meows and meows, impatiently impatient to see what he's come to see.

    Unfortunately, the only exhibit that Chucky wants to see are the penguins. I am strategic. Leave the penguins until the end. We may never get out of there once he lays his cat eyes on them. 

     Now I am fascinated, too. They are almost human like--the way they walk and seem to be looking directly at you.

    That is the problem. The perky penguin looks directly at Chucky and Chucky saunters up to the glass and looks directly at the penguin. 

      By some miracle--it is nearing lunch. Moms and kids have wandered off. The penguin staff have left to get the penguin lunch of fish. We are alone in the exhibit. 

     There is a protocol to viewing the penguins. No tapping on the glass. You can look but that's it. Chucky seldom follows any rule exactly. He puts his pink nose to the glass. The penguin moves closer. 

     What is this rascal cat going to do? I step closer in anticipation, ready for anything, remembering how he snuck into the camel's fenced in enclosure. There is no way he's getting into the penguin enclosure. That's impossible. Or is it?

     Without warning, Chucky rears on his two hind legs so his belly touches the glass. His two front paws press forward. He lands square against that same glass partition. 

     I expect the penguin to step back. That's what I would have done if I were a penguin. But he doesn't. He raises one of his wings and makes contact.

     Cat paw to penguin wing.

     I can't believe it.

     I reach for my camera. This will make animal history. I take the shot, but by the time I click, the penguin has already backed away, distracted by a staffer who has shown up at that very second with his fish lunch. 

                                                                                                                              Chucky jumps down and is casually sitting near the exhibit, grooming. As if it has never happened!

       But it did happen. I saw it.

 

       I turn to my beautiful, ultra reliable niece Samantha. "You saw that, right?"

    

       Sam smiles. "Whatever, Aunt Kate." 

 

       Ugh. 

      Chucky, for all his rascally ways, has always been a kind of ambassador of good will. Despite the lack of photographic evidence, I am so proud of him that day in the aquarium. 

        And just for the record he didn't even try and eat any fish!

Chuck Visits Death Valley

 

    Where did you go?

       Once in awhile I wear my Death Valley T-shirt. It's a nice color green with a design on it. The words Death Valley are super-sized. I catch the surprised looks on people's faces when they see it--why would anyone want to go to Death Valley? 

        Isn't it dangerous?

        Any place with the word "death" in it makes it undesirable as a vacation destination.  In my opinion.

        But Chucky wants to go. To see the dunes. Because . . . wait for it . . . he is a Star Wars fan and, believe it or not, that's where the famed movie was filmed.  Full disclosure--the Star Wars movies were filmed all over the world but Star Wars IV, Chucky's favorite, happened to be filmed in Death Valley.

        For a cat who only seems to be interested in eating and sleeping and hanging out with his brother Jack, it is astonishing to see that he has produced a laundry list of what he wants to see:

        Number one on the list is The Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes where R2-D2 went his separate way after he and C-3PO crash their escape pod on Tatooine. 

     

  The other spots are: Artist's Drive where R2-D2 is abducted by Jawas, which was shot in a canyon.

        Desolation Canyon where the Tuscan Raiders mount Bantha before Luke Skywalker is attacked.

        And, last but not least, Twenty Mule Team Canyon, where the "Lost Scene" was shot, where Luke Skywalker is working on a new lightsaber in a cave.

     

          I make no promises to this cat with such high expectations, especially when we begin to pass warning signs that hint at the intense heat we are likely to feel in this desert region. Despite all the dire information that I share with him . . .

        "Death Valley sits at the northwest corner of the Mojave Desert, the lowest point in North America . . . " Dan and I even pose near the sign at Badwater Basin to make my point!

      There is no reaction from my obstinate cat.

        "Death Valley is known for its extreme heat and limited rain," I continue.  (Later we would see a thermometer reading of 106 degrees.)

        Chucky appears to be undeterred. He is determined, quite like I've never seen him before, to trudge ahead. We decide, thank God, to arrive early, very early in the morning. We are here in October so the weather in the morning is bearable. An hour later and you wouldn't be able to walk on the sand. 

        Still, I worry about the Rascal cat's paws being burnt in the hot sand. 

        "They don't call this place Death Valley for nothing," I say to him as he races ahead of me. 

        Chucky looks back at me skeptically. 

        He's right, of course. The morbid name dates back to 1849 and derives from a single episode that occurred. A group of emigrants with a guide, part of the California Gold Rush, left to reach California. Unfortunately, part of the group (looking for a shortcut) splintered off, got lost, and ended up traveling through the desert. Their journey took four months. A survivor from the group called the desert Death Valley because everyone didn't survive.            

         Walking on dunes is no easy task. The sand squishes under your feet. Luckily, I'm wearing sneakers. I catch up to him. He knows where we are--The Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes.

        "Where are you going?"

        He doesn't have to meow it. To the top of the dune. His destination is clear.  I don't want to say or even think it. (That he'll never make it.) Where does he get these crazy ideas? 

        I'm the one who's stopped for a breather. Chucky is plowing through the sand like a real trooper. With a mission. 

        There's a nice breeze at this time in the morning. The sun isn't too hot, yet. I see the top of the dune in the distance. It looks too far away. People are there ahead of us, struggling. 

        "Chucky, you're not R2-D2." 

         He stops. 

         I know that was a hit below the cat collar. I also know that every morning, rain or shine, sleet or snow, Chucky is outside doing his rounds, sniffing and exploring the patio and back yard. He has to know who's been there. It's an obligation he must fulfill. That's the kind of cat he is.

        "Okay. okay. I get it," I tell him. 

        Dan hasn't said a word during this entire exchange. "I wish we brought a flag of something. This feels like an historic moon walk that needs to be documented somehow."

        Dan laughs. "Don't worry. He'll be okay. I have some water with me. He'll be thirsty when he comes back." 

        We trail behind our valiant cat. As he leaves us in the dust, he is more difficult to see because his orangey coat color blends in with the color of the sand. I stop about 3/4 of the way up and take shade under a pathetic looking half dead tree. 

        Later, when Chucky is passed out, cat napping, fully hydrated, we drive over to Zebriskie Point and see that Death Valley with its sand dunes and sand flats and canyons and mountains is quite beautiful.

        So I am surprised--not only by how heroic a rascal cat can be-- but how expectations sometimes can blind you and not let you see the beauty that was there all along. 

        Don't be fooled by a name.

        

Chuck Wants to Be A Cowboy

      I blame myself for what happened when we arrived at Lone Pine, California. 

    Imagine a very small town in the middle of nowhere, well, actually in the middle of the desert. Surrounded by the Alabama Hills, whose only claim to fame is that Hollywood used to shoot Westerns there back in the day. 

    We were headed to Lone Pine for only one reason--to stay at the Dow Hotel, built in the 1920's where the likes of John Wayne, and Gene Autry and Roy Rogers had stayed.

    Because I am a big fan of Roy Rogers. 

    I'm not sure how this obsession happened. I remember as a kid that I watched Roy Rogers on TV. He was the good guy and always got the bad guy. He was married to Dale Evans. His horse was a beautiful Palomino named Trigger, who was so smart he often got the bad guy in his own adventures. And, of course, there was the dog, a German Shepherd named Bullet.  

    The show featured a song that went "Happy trails to you, until we meet again . . ." a tune that is emblazoned on my memory. It ran on TV from 1951 until 1957. I must have watched the re-runs. Before that the Roy Rogers radio show ran for 9 years. 

    Roy Rogers (not his real name) was known as the "King of Cowboys". He made over 100 films. Somehow all this information and all my positive feelings got transferred over into Chucky. Not sure how, but it must have in order to understand what happened next. 

    The hotel was sweet. Everything I'd expect--photos and giant poster board images were there. 

    

    Even the cute little outfit Dale Evans used to wear.

     The entire place made us feel a little goofy. Dan couldn't resist pretending he was a cowboy himself and posed with Roy, with John Wayne looking on. Some of the crazy stuff you do on vacation!

    We were assigned our room and my only disappointment was that we weren't given the Roy Rogers room, which we passed on the way to our room. 

    "It is reserved," they said. 

    "Can we, at least, peek inside?"

    "Sorry."

    I was disappointed. although I don't know what I expected to see in there. Roy Rogers, himself? (With Dale and Trigger and Bullet.)

    We settled into our small room (I suspected all the rooms were on the small side or quaint as they advertise in the literature). 

    We left Chucky snoozing on the bed, with plenty of food (of course), and we went across the street to this wonderful mom and dad like cafe for dinner. The food was down home and delicious. Afterwards, we took a long walk up and down the Main Street, returned to the hotel, and came back to an empty room. 

    What?

    How the heck could that rascal cat have gotten out of this room. One door only. Locked. One window only. Closed. 

    We both plunked down on the bed. I looked at Dan, and he looked at me. 

    "We have to go over everything we did," I said.

    "He didn't even eat his dinner." Dan was right. All his food was still there where we left it. Stranger than strange. 

    "We both left the room together. He was on the bed. I saw him," I said, recounting my last memory of Chucky before we left to go across the street.

    "But I came back," Dan admitted.

    "That's right. For your jacket."

    "Could you have . . ." I asked.

    "I must have . . . " 

    "And then he . . ."

    "I'm sorry. I was rushing around so much, I didn't even notice."

    The bottom line was--he'd escaped. 

    "Okay, so where did he go?" My thoughts were in a whirl.

    Dan started pacing the room. He stopped. 

    "The Roy Rogers Room," he shouted.

    "Of course." I knew he was right. That's where I would have gone if I were a cat.

    We didn't have far to go. The Roy Rogers reserved room was right down the hallway. 

    "But how did he get in?"

     We were stumped for only a moment.

    "One of the clean up crew must have gone in there for something and left the door open . . ."

    We reached the room. Dan grabbed the doorknob. It turned. We barreled in and prayed we weren't interrupting anything that might just happen in a reserved room.

    There Chuck was perched on the bed. Looking like an authentic 1940's cowboy star. Totally enthralled. In his glory. Minus the hat and boots, of course. I ignored him for the moment.

    "Look at this room." Roy Rogers this and Roy Rogers that filled every nook and cranny. 

    "Do you hear that?"

    "What?"

    "The Happy Trails song is playing in the background." 

    Dan picked up Chuck. "Well, at least you got to see the room," Dan said. 

     "You can hear that song, right?"

     "If you say so," Dan said rather noncomitedly. 

    Sometimes too much of a good thing can actually be a bad thing.  For the rest of the evening I couldn't get that darned tune out of my head.

     

    

Chuck Visits the Enchanted Woods

    You don't have to go all the way to California to have a good time. A perfect place to spend a few days is in the nearby state of Delaware, in beautiful Brandywine Valley, at Winterthur. 

      Winterthur is the former home of Henry Francis du Pont. It comprises a 60 acre naturalistic garden, over 1,000 acres of rolling hills, meadows and woodlands, 25 miles of well-marked paths and trails, and lush gardens. It will be near impossible to see everything there is to see there in a single day--his house or rather his mansion which is now the museum, the library, and all the grounds.  

        So we decide to spend a few days and do the typical tours, eat out in the local restaurants, play a bit of tennis, and . . . 

        . . . see The Enchanted Woods. I was there before, years ago, and remember the magic of it, especially the mist coming out of the giant mushrooms. That's what I remember most of all. Pretty cool. I don't care if the woods was designed for children (I'll admit it.) Heck, we all have a bit of the child in us. 

        Once I describe the woods to Chucky and all the cool things he is going to see and smell, he lets out a big meow (well, as big as he can meow), which means (I think) he can't wait to see it either. 

        I am totally excited the morning we park the car, take the path around the back of the mansion, and head in what we hope is the right direction. 

        "Be prepared to be amazed," I say to Dan and Chuck. 

        Dan is looking around. Chuck is sniffing. Of course. But they're skeptical. How wonderful can these woods really be?

        We see the sign.

      In some ways, I feel like Dorothy following the yellow brick road into the land of Oz. I love that there is a brick pathway (not yellow but a soothing mauve color) to follow that is cleverly designed.

     We are surrounded by lush greenery. It is a beautiful morning. Not too hot. Chucky is almost grinning (if cats could grin.)

     He rushes up ahead to sniff a gorgeous baby angel statue holding a swan that sits along the pathway. 

    

     We pass a large boulder that sits upright with a quote from Shakespeare, touting the lessons learned from nature:

     

     And then we come to the circle of word stones that capture the last and most important part of the nursery rhyme -- "Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream, -- Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream."

         

   

        The mood is set for what follows. Dan and I find a looking glass and dare to look through, which is, of course, the most important part.

      The Enchanted Woods await us. 

       There is a magic wishing well. If you throw a penny in, your wish will come true.

   

       We spy a small thatched cottage that is empty now, but we suspect that when night comes, the cottage fills with goblins and fairies and all kinds of magical creatures.  We dare not go inside, fearing that once inside, you are changed forever into one of those magical creatures.

       We find another larger rough hewn house of logs with a thatched roof with miniature furniture that seems to be a welcoming place. We step inside. Chucky is all too eager to sniff around and check out the furnishings.

     I'm  in seventh heaven, walking around, inspecting, experiencing the magic of this place. Always keeping my eye on Chucky who is loping along beside us, until he isn't. We don't notice he's missing right away. Later we suspect it happens when we spot the giant bird's nest with the three gigantic bird eggs.

       I assume the rascal cat will want to see the eggs. That's when I notice he's missing. Gone. Vamoosed.  I feel like the Bill Murray character in Groundhog Day, doomed to repeat the same scenario yet again.

        "He could be anywhere."

        "He probably stuck to the path," Dan says, reasonably.

        "But there's no guarantee of that," I argue unreasonably.

        "I can go look back and you can keep on looking ahead . . ."

        It sounds like a good suggestion, but I remember the startling statistics of this place--the vastness of these woods. Chuck could literally be anywhere. If I lose Dan in the process, it will be doubly worse.

         "He can't have gone far. Let's stick together."

         We don't separate into two search parties. Up ahead, the cutest mushroom cottage with a thatched roof sits on the edge of the path. But there is no joy in my heart. All I can think about is NO CHUCK. 

        "Chuck."

         Nothing. 

         Even the birds have stopped tweeting.

         I'm tempted to return to the wishing well and throw a penny in. Make a wish--Find Chucky. But I don't have a penny on me. Only my darned credit card. Dan has left all his change in the car. 

         Dan, forgetting for the moment the seriousness of the search, spots the mushroom cottage and poses in front of it. 

          "This is something," he says.

        "Is he in there? Chuck?"

        Dan disappears inside. And I wait. Strange thoughts run through my mind. Maybe this is a magic mushroom. Once you go inside, you can't get out. You get sucked in somehow or you fall through a secret hole in the stone floor. 

        Finally, Dan appears and waves me to come over. He puts his fingers to his lips. 

         There the rascal cat is. Cuddled on the floor of the mushroom cottage. Fast asleep. His face on his paw. Totally oblivious to the agony he has put his mom and dad through. 

         Let it go, I tell myself. 

         Dan exits the mushroom. "Maybe we should just leave him there for awhile. The poor kid looks exhausted."

          We finished walking around The Enchanted Woods. The joy comes back. Chucky is safe. 

        

        Somehow, without the patter of little paws running beside us, the Enchanted Woods just isn't the same.