Rascal Chuck Rides a Camel in Egypt

                 A few months ago my sisters and I and Chuck, the rascal cat, visited a small zoo in Pennsylvania. Much to our surprise, they had camels—an animal you don’t usually see except, of course, if you’re in Egypt.            

            In fact, Chuck’s obsession with camels actually started in Giza, Egypt—the first time he came face to face with a camel and decided that he just had to ride one.

            Now, cats have a long-revered history in Egypt. Dating back to the Egyptian gods (one god was depicted with the head of a cat) and the Pharoahs who valued cats for protecting them (in one case killing a venomous snake), you can find evidence that Egyptians loved cats. For example, there are cat skeletons in pyramids with small pots that most likely contained milk for the cats. You can also find mummified cats, amulets with cat heads, murals of cats showing them as part of everyday life, cat statues, and even cat cemeteries. I can go on and on.

            The upshot of all of this is that Dan and I are not concerned in the least that we're bringing a cat into Egypt. We figure the Egyptians will be thrilled, and Chuck will be treated like royalty. After all, he is a very special cat. The Egyptians will certainly be able to see that. Right?

          Full disclosure: When Chuck first mentions wanting a camel ride when we're still back in the USA, it sounds farfetched. When we're sitting in our hotel room in Giza, gazing out at the pyramids, it's quite easy to schedule one. Now this will be my first camel ride. Since Dan grew up in Egypt, he's an old pro. Chuck finds nothing unusual about wanting to ride a camel, whatsoever.

           Take it from me.  The desert in Egypt is a surreal experience. Close your eyes and imagine you're in a scene from Lawrence of Arabia. There's sand, of course, everywhere. Pyramids stand majestically in the distance. Camels laze around complacently, waiting for the typical tourist to arrive so they can do their thing. 

            Our guide wears a long flowing green robe, a smartly styled mosaic scarf, and modern reflective sunglasses. He greets us, never blinking an eye that Chuck wants to ride, too.  How many camels--he wants to  know. I expect him to ask if we want the standard, deluxe or super deluxe camel ride, but, no, he is a serious guide, and there's no funny business.

        Camels are big. I have the same sensation mounting the camel that I do whenever I get on top of a horse. It's something I want to do, but when I'm right there in the moment, that horse . . . that camel is big and the seat looks very far off the ground. Somehow I manage to get myself on top of the camel while Dan holds Chucky. 

        Dan tries to hand Chucky up to me, but I need a minute. The view looks different on top of a camel. Suddenly, frantic thoughts besiege me--falling off the camel thoughts, dropping Chucky thoughts. 

        "Okay." 

    

         Dan tries again, but this time, Chucky is the reluctant one. He wiggles around. 

          Our guide immediately steps forward. "Maybe he wants his own camel." He's about to wave his friend over, who just happens to have a spare camel lounging around.

           I look at Dan, and he looks at me. We don't say a word to each other. We're each too busy imagining what that would be like-- Chucky, holding the reins as he marches across the Sahara Desert on a camel.

        Suddenly, a brainstorm: "Let Chuck sniff the camel."

        I should know my cat better. Humans need to see their environment. "Let me see it," we say. Cats needs to sniff. They can get a world of information when they inhale. 

        The rest is easy. Chucky sits in my lap. Dan mounts his camel. We are off.

         If you're curious, riding a camel is a bit like trying to sit on top of a seat that goes up and down and sideways at the same time. I wouldn't try to drink a cup of coffee while I was riding a camel  or shoot a photo. But you can look around and see the scenery. And if you have an overweight cat in your lap, he'll stay there, his face jutting out stoically to the Sahara wind. Sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.

       Later, back in our hotel room, I say to my not too spoiled cat, "Do you realize how spoiled you are??"

        But Chucky, always up to something, usually rascally, poses in a nearby window. I snap his photo. 

         "Gosh darn," I say to Dan, "doesn't he look just like an Egyptian cat?"

           "With those black eyes," Dan says back, "he looks more like he's been taken over by the d----"

            To be continued . . .

            

         

        

        

            

      

        

        

        

        

Chuck and the Giant Goldfish

     I should have titled this blog: Chuck Loves Fish. Or maybe Chuck Loves to Watch Fish? Chuck Loves to Eat Fish? Actually, I wasn't sure when we found the pond, what the end result was going to be.

     After the Jethro Giraffe incident, when Chucky decided he didn't even want to sniff Jethro, we decide it's better that our next outing with Chuck be a low-keyed affair. 

    We discover quite by accident--my friend named Barbara tells me--there is a delightful 300 acre park, botanical gardens and woods in Hamilton, NJ open to the public that she's recently visited and highly recommends. Although the Sayen House and Gardens began in 1912 when Frederick Sayen purchased it with his wife and began collecting plants and flowers from all over the world, it became municipal property in 1988 and was finally opened to the public in 1991. 

    Today the property boasts 1,000 azaleas, 500 rhododendrons, over 250,000 flowering bulbs on display as well as ponds, bridges, gazebos and walking trails near babbling brooks.  We're determined to see it all.

    

    And there is parking. Which is always a plus. We leave our car, with Chucky in tow and start walking down one of the white pebbled paths. Everything is in bloom, well-tended and sparkling. We find a bench and Dan poses for a photo while I keep an ever present eye on the Chuckster.

    A wood chipped trail leads into a shaded wood. The temperature in late afternoon is perfect--low seventies. Birds are tweeting. There's a faint scent of honeysuckle or something sweet in the air. We pass a few people, but not many. We fantasize we are in our own private wood and going out for a leisurely stroll. 

    "Chuck," we say, "you're not just an ordinary rascal cat, but you're someone special today. These are your woods, Chucky. Your birds. Your trees. Your bushes."

    Chucky is prancing along. For a cat who likes to sniff, this is paradise heaven. We cross a wooden bridge and . . .

 

suddenly, we face a pond, surrounded on all sides by trees and bushes. In the middle of the pond, a fountain shoots water into the air, which fans out into a perfect arc.

    There's something about water--lakes, ponds, brooks--that makes everything better. We decide to walk around the lake, and that's when we see them.

    The fish.

    And realize. This is a giant fish pond. 

    Chucky sees them too. The fish seem to sense we're there, and for some unexplainable reason,  start swimming near us. 

   Dan and I start counting the fish. We count close to a dozen. But Chucky doesn't care about how many fish there are. He's only interested in one fish in particular.

    A giant goldfish, sparkling in the sunlight, has spotted Chucky and now begins to swim in gigantic circles in front of him.  

   

    "Look at that, Chuck." I point to the fish, but Chucky is more than aware. His eyes are glued to the fish. He steps closer to the pond, weaving his way between the bushes and other obstacles in his path. 

    I'm not concerned. Cats hate water. There's no way he's going to jump in that pond. I'm certain of it.

    That darned goldfish swims even closer to the shore. 

    

    Chucky spots an opening, a pathway that leads right into the pond.

   

   Now I'm panicking. Does he want to swim with the fish or eat him? Can he even swim? Doggie paddle? Cat paddle?

    "Chuck, read the sign."

    

   I, of course, panick for nothing. The rascal cat only wants to get a closer look. He's read the sign and understands quite clearly the rules. He's never had any intention of harming the fish. 

   Later, as we relax in the gazebo, he says, "You know, mom, sometimes you're just too much." At least that's what I think he says.

Chuck And Jethro, the Giraffe--It's Complicated

     I love to tell the story that I kissed a giraffe years ago while on safari in Kenya. Her name was Daisy. There's a trick to it. You put a nugget of food between your lips, and the giraffe swoops down to retrieve the food. That contact, when her long black tongue (which is about 18 inches long) touches your lips--very gently--is the kiss.  

    The giraffe is the tallest living terrestrial animal so if you want that kiss you have to stand on a platform. Their heads are also big--much bigger than you imagine if you've only seen them from a distance--so you must remain calm as they move in closer. You also have to buy into the marketing that goes something like this: Giraffes have the cleanest mouths of all the animals in the wild. Sounds good. It could be true. Probably is. But how clean are all the other animals' mouths? Just what am I comparing a giraffe to? 

    But it's a magical experience. 

    Chuck heard the kissing Daisy story, of course, and most likely harbored a secret longing to kiss a giraffe like Daisy himself. I could see the twinkle in his eye whenever I mentioned Daisy or giraffes in general.  

    "That was Kenya, Chuck. In Africa. Trust me. I was visiting a giraffe sanctuary in Nairobi (www.giraffecenter.org). No one is kissing giraffes in America. The best we can do is gaze at them in awe and/or feed them." 

    In a zoo or sanctuary. 

    Even feeding a giraffe is never easy. In Kenya if you happen upon a giraffe in the wild, you are seeing them from a distance. Getting close enough to feed them would be difficult. They rarely sleep and have an excellent sense of smell. They are kind, gentle creatures, except when they feel threatened. They can run up to 35 mph, but if they decide to stay and fight, a giraffe's kick can severely wound or kill, even a lion.

    Chucky listens to all the vital information about giraffes. I have tons of photos because they are my favorite animal. Dan and l think Chuck knows what to expect. 

    Chuck's best option is a wild animal park in Pennsylvania. There you can feed a giraffe named Jethro. This amazing animal park schedules feedings several times a day. Chucky seems primed and ready to go. 

    Our first glimpse of Jethro is when he glides out of his habitat to take a look before he appears on stage. Giraffes walk differently than most four legged animals. They move their front and back legs on the right side together when they take a step. The same thing happens on the left side. That's why they look as if they're gliding along the ground.

    Jethro is amazingly popular, and when he comes out, it seems like every single person who has come to the animal park that day has gathered there to feed Jethro. Everyone has a handful of carrots to give him. The crowd is bursting with excitement. Moms, dads, kids, grandparents, teenagers, and well, everybody, is talking and laughing, pointing and snapping photos. 

Jethro is the star of the show. 

    My lovely sister Cyndi is the test case. She somehow manages to make it to the front of the crowd. With her carrots. She gets to reach out and wait while Jethro mosies over and eats the carrots out of her hand. To see a giraffe's face so close up--it's priceless. 

     I can feel Chuck next to me watching everything. I'm thinking he's just dying to get closer to Jethro. Undoubtedly, he imagines me picking him up and hauling him through the crowd so he can look Jethro in the eye--cat to giraffe--and sniff him.  

    After Cyndi is finished, I hand her my cell phone and make my way up to the front. I am test case number two. I know it's silly but I reach out and pet Jethro. I only have a few seconds of ecstasy because there is a plethora of anxious everybodies who want a chance to touch or feed this wonderful giraffe. 

    It's now Chucky's turn. I reach down to pick him up, but he backs away. What? A change of heart? I'm truly astounded. I try again, figuring he just needs a moment. But no, Chucky has decided--sniffing Jethro, coming face to face, nose to nose, is not his cup of tea.

    Later when I try to talk it out with him, try to figure out why he had the sudden change of heart, I get absolutely nowhere. Only then I realize that, perhaps, Chucky is more lion than I've given him credit for. Everyone knows lions and giraffes don't mix. Maybe it's instinctive, and I need to let it be. It's complicated.

    
    

Rascal Chuck's Adventures at the Philadelphia Museum of Art

     Trust me, we don't take the rascal cat to the museum to have him trash this glorious place. It's my idea to bring him to the museum because I want to expose him to a little culture. Let me make that perfectly clear. 

    But it's a bad idea. Cats and culture don't mix. Usually.

    The Philadelphia Museum of Art is a wondrous sanctuary. With 200 galleries of American, Asian and European art, it is one of the oldest public art museums. 

    If you like Impressionist Art, there are galleries of Monet, Manet, Renoir, Cassatt, Cezanne, and the list goes on. I want to see Monet's The Japanese Footbridge and the Water Lily Pool, Giverny 1899, one of my favorites. When I was in Giverny years ago, I walked across that bridge. Monet, who left hundreds of great paintings behind once said, "My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece."

    This, of course, is lost on Chucky.

    Another popular favorite is Van Gogh's Sunflowers, 1889

    Still, no response from the rascal cat but a yawn. 

    But, don't despair. There are so many wonderful things to see in this museum. Would the cat be impressed by oppulence on the grandest of all grand scales? This museum has actually the entirety of a drawing room that existed circa turn of the century--every stick of furniture, every painting, every knick-knack--on display so we can see how they used to live in the upper crust of society.

    He barely gives it a glance.

    We move on to the next exciting space. A Hindu temple from 1560. A woman, on vacation, saw pieces of a temple lying about in ruins, bought the pieces, transported them back home to her backyard, died and her family donated them to the museum. These pieces were put back together and now exist as a true to life Indian temple people used to worship the gods or for weddings or other reasons to hang out. 

     Chucky gives the temple one sniff and then moves on. 

     But then things dramatically change. We are in one of the Asian Art Galleries, and we finally see something that Chucky might be interested in--a dog cage. But this isn't any dog cage. The rings at the top and bottom of the cage are made of white jade. This cage was designed for a hunting dog who lived in a pavilion of marble floors, slept on silk cushions, and wore silk brocade outfits.

        

    Chucky is staring at the cage.  He then sits up and begins to bounce. Oh, no. I know what that means. He wants to jump in that cage. Somehow he imagines he'll open that door latch and hop in. Live for a brief moment the life of a court dog. 

    "No, no. You can't do that. We're in a--"

    He leaps up. Lands on the grayish area around the cage. And if life were kinder, there wouldn't be a square glass enclosure around the cage that Chucky bumps into. 

    He glances back at me.

    "It's an antique," I try to explain. "The Qing Dynasty. Maybe goes all the way back to 1644."

    He smacks against the glass with his paw. Several times. In defiance.

    I actually feel sorry for the kid as I lift him off and place him back on the cold gray floor. 

    Nothing prepares me for what happens next. We enter into the courtyard of a French cloister that is not enclosed in glass. This is all Chucky needs to see. And smell. There is a fountain with bubbling water in the center. 

    I call out to Dan. "Get him. He's heading for the water."

    We're no match for Chucky when he sets his sights on something. He can move faster than a speeding bullet. And at times he feels more powerful than a locomotive when you reach for him and he jerks himself out of your grasp.

    

    So there he is, perched on the edge of the fountain, tilted just enough so he can drink the water from the fountain. 

    "I don't think he's supposed to do that," I say.

    Dan says, "Just let him be."

    "I only hope he doesn't jump in for a swim." 

    Joke. He hates getting his fur wet. That's the only saving grace. And the fact that although we come close, the rascal cat isn't evicted.

    Visiting the museum is not a complete disaster. We do discover that Chuck can appreciate paintings as long as they're of animals. He stares long and hard. He emits a sigh. 

        

    Finally, at the end he asks if he can have his portrait up there near the monkey. So when we get home, he poses for the camera. What do you think? Should we hire a famous portrait painter to capture the rascal Chuck for all posterity?

    

Rascal Chuck Escapes the Wrath of Mother Nature

     Imagine a quiet Sunday morning with nothing to do. 

    Brainstorm. Why don't we take a trip to the NJ Botanical Gardens in Ringwood, NJ? A beautiful day is forecast with a slight chance of showers.  The Gardens are part of Ringwood State Park, dedicated in 1984--a 96 acre wonderland of plants, shrubs, evergreen and deciduous trees, terraced gardens and woodland paths.

    "You can spend the entire day outside," I tell my rascal cat. "Spend the entire day . . . sniffing."

    Chucky's on board. Dan likes to be active. Spending the day outside taking photos is up his alley.

    If you've ever been to Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, PA, this is a smaller and less glitzier version of having gardens upon gardens on exhibit, but the gardens are still quite impressive. We sign up for a walking tour (scheduled for later in the day), but off we go to explore the landscape on our own. 

    I love the fact that you walk under a trellis that leads you into a kind of magical landscape.

    Imagine lush grasses and meadows that seem to go on forever. 

                            https://youtu.be/I1EW8UMlvmw

    

    Dan is a particular fan of anything purple.

 He's more than happy to sit on a nearby bench and stare at the very purple bush. I sit down, too . . .

but am much more anxious to get a move on and see what else is here. 

  

  We spot beautiful angel statues and fountains, scattered throughout the gardens. 

    

   The gardens are breathtaking. Wherever you look, you see a tree or a bush or a landscape you want to capture. 

    For Chucky, he feels much the same way. But for him, wherever he looks, he sees something he wants to sniff. There's barely a complaining meow out of him. 

    Still, from long experience, I've learned to keep one eye on him. Just in case. 

    Before we know it, it's time for the tour. An elderly gentleman, who is an ex-schoolteacher, tree expert, and volunteer at the Botanical Gardens for centuries begins to lead us around the part of the Gardens we haven't yet explored. This guy knows everything about the trees that are here. He can spot and label, recite the history and birth place of every tree that now sits proudly in the landscape. 

    It's still a beautiful day even though the sun has gone in, the sky has turned a bit gray and there's that dense feeling in the air portending that something is brewing. I push that thought out of my brain and concentrate on the trees that we pass. 

    But . . . a drop falls. Then another raindrop. We push on. 

    I forgot to mention that Chucky loves to be outside. He's been known to go out in the coldest of weather. He'll traipse through snow, muddy trails, puddles, wet grass, sticky sand, and a host of other unpleasant surfaces to get to where he wants to go. 

    But he doesn't like rain. He doesn't like to get his fur wet. He insists on being dried off with paper towels if he happens to get rained on when we're home. And, if I have to be honest, he hates the stuff. 

    We are about four fifths of the way through our tour when it becomes apparent to everyone that it is about to rain. Or it is raining. Big time. Dan and I both have rain jackets with hoods. No umbrellas. Of course. 

    Chucky has nothing but a sour look on his face as he continually gazes up at the now rain soaked sky.

    The tour continues. Our tour guide is not bothered by rain splashing all around him. He is too busy talking about the magnificent trees. 

    I pull Dan aside. "What should we do?"

    We turn to look at Chuck. He has this distressed look on his face. He doesn't really care about the trees. Hearing about them. He's sniffed quite a few. 

    I, on the other hand, would like to stay for the rest of the tour. I like trees. 

    "I think we should go. He's going to look like a drowned rat in another five minutes," Dan says.

    Of course, he's right. 

    "I'll pick him up. Keep him under my jacket, and we'll head for the car."

    Chuck is no light weight. He likes his snacks. So this is a generous offer.

    "That's a plan."

    Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans . . . we turn to pick up Chuck. Rescue him from the rain and he's gone. 

    Why do I feel like I've seen this movie before? I barely have to say a word to Dan because we are so experienced at looking for this rascal. 

    Think like a cat. If he hates the rain, he'll run for cover. 

    We scan the perimeter. He's got to be under something. 

     Immediately, we spot an orange and white tail sticking out of a low hanging evergreen branch. Sure enough, he must have skedaddled across the wet grass to escape the wrath of Mother Nature. 

    In the car, on the way home, after Chucky is warm and dry, after he's had his snack and is resting oh so comfortably in the back seat of the car, I ask him my favorite question.

    "What was the best part of your day today?"

    He meows contentedly. 

    Chucky likes adventures, but in the world according to the rascal cat, there's nothing like a good snooze.

    

    

     

Chuck Discovers the Gibbons

      I'll be honest. I didn't even know what a gibbon was until we stumbled upon this adorable gibbon family at the Philadelphia Zoo. 

    Chucky was moping around because he was finally realizing he couldn't adopt a daddy gorilla and take him home. We were about to leave the PECO Primate Reserve when Dan hears a bit of whooping and hollering coming from a bunch of young kids who are watching something extraordinary. 

    "Let's go over there, Chuck," he says, "and see what's going on."

    At that very moment, a kid yells out, "They just delivered Big Macs to the gibbons."

    "What?" I ask.

    The kid's mom laughs. "The keeper threw in some big bags. Filled with something. He thinks they're Big Macs."

    That's all Chuck needs to hear. Anything related to food usually gets the Rascal cat's attention. 

    We skedaddle over to the large plate glass window that overlooks an outside area where there is a kind of jungle gym for all the primates who live there. Sure enough, the entire gibbon family of four is outside.

    Mercury is the dad and Phoenice is the mom. Ophelia is the younger daughter who is very active. Polaris is the older brother. The kid is right--they all seem to have a big brown grocery store style bag. 

    

     That kid wasn't kidding. I try not to think about what's in the bag and focus more on the gibbon itself. 

    Is a gibbon a monkey, chimpanzee or closer to a gorilla? How smart are they? Are they dangerous? Can you have them as pets? Are they on the endangered species list? 

    Usually Chucky is asking all these questions. This time I'm the curious one. He already has his face pressed up against the glass--watching, like all the other kids because the two little gibbons can't seem to stand still. Watch this YouTube video and see what we saw:

                               https://youtu.be/_rjULzaTcdg

  In a nutshell:

  gibbons are extremely acrobatic (no kidding)

  live in close knit family units

  don't have tails so they are considered to be small apes

  can recognize themselves in mirrors which show some sense of self awareness 

  have arms that are one and a half times longer than their legs which means they can propel themselves through trees with ease and move with alarming speed

  live in rainforests in the wild

  love to eat fruit not Big Macs

  are known for making loud calls that echo for miles in order to ward off enemies and defend their territory

   do not make good pets but, unfortunately, the population of gibbons is vulnerable because people think they're cute and want them as pets

    I make sure to share all this vital info with Chuck, especially the part about they do not make good pets, not wanting a repeat of--let's adopt a baby gibbon scenario, but amazingly he doesn't bring it up this time.  When the gibbons calm down, when the show is over, we turn around to leave. 

    "I'm proud of you, Chucky." 

    I turn to Dan as we're on our way outside. "Maybe he's finally growing up. No drama. This is good."

    "Or another scam. He's looking for a reward."

    We are, of course, passing Tiger Terrace which sells hamburgers.

    "You don't think--"

    Cats are carnivores. This rascal cat loves chicken, turkey, meatballs and hamburgers. No buns. No catsup or onions. Just meat.

    "Oh, what the heck." 

    We order three. Chucky's other nickname, of course, is the Belly Boy and the shape of that belly, well, we don't want to talk about that.