Chuck and his Devil Spirit

          

    When we left off last week . . . we were in a heck of a predicament! Was the photo of Chuck evidence that he'd been taken over by some kind of devil spirit? 

       I stare at the photo carefully then look back at Chucky. 

     He looks the same as always in person, but in the photo, he looks different. 

     Dan makes the connection first. "You don't think something happened to Chucky when he went down with us into the pyramid, do you?"

     I don't want to believe it. "No . . . that's impossible. Besides, there was nothing down there. And nothing happened to us. Well, nothing much."

     I don't want to remember the climbing into the pyramid experience. What seemed like a good idea at the time--getting a once in a lifetime opportunity to climb into a pyramid--turned out to be a bit more arduous than we imagined.

     Pyramids abound in the Sahara Desert in Giza. Centuries ago, before they were "tampered with"--cleaned out, robbed, etc., they were not only the tombs of the ancient pharoahs but also the repository of their treasure. Nowadays, of course, they are empty shells. Still, they have an allure that's hard to pass up, and after our camel ride, we decide to grab an opportunity and climb into a pyramid.

     We form a plan. Dan will take Chuck, stuffed into his backpack, hoisted on his back. I'll go first. 

     To access this particular pyramid, you have to go in from the top and then climb down approximately 300 narrow steps in the relatively pitch blackness. 

      To get to the top, you climb on a rickety metal stair that leans against the pyramid. In some places the stair has no railing. As you navigate each step, higher and higher, it's a good idea not to look down. If you slip and fall, it would be the equivalent of falling off the roof of a very tall house, or, perhaps, a small hotel. The stairs are also slippery. 

      Surprisingly, I have little trouble navigating this part of the journey. There's a gentle desert breeze blowing. No problem. But Dan doesn't like heights. In fact, he might even have acrophobia, a fear of heights. For him, the higher we go, the more uncomfortable he feels. 

     "You can do it," I tell him.

      He's not really listening. Breathing hard. He stops, and I figure--this is it. He'll be stuck on this metal ladder thing forever. But, no, eventually he moves forward. Slowly.

        When we get to the top, we have to turn ourselves around and enter backwards. Literally, we squeeze ourselves through the opening to a small landing. Then we begin to climb down the steps. It's dark and stale smelling. There are small lights positioned every 10 steps or so, but all they do is create shadows. 

        This is the worst part for me because I'm claustrophobic. I close my eyes and begin to count--anything to take my mind off of where I am and what I'm doing. Don't think about what could go wrong, ie. do pyramids ever self implode? or what if one of us sprains an ankle? 

      Meanwhile, Dan is doing great inside the pyramid. He's literally flying down the steps, singing a happy song. No problem. 

      We reach the bottom. Chucky is bouncing around, sniffing everything. Even though there is basically nothing here. I mean nothing. It'a big empty room. Who's idea was this? I'm thinking. 

       Then, of course, as we're marveling at the sheer notion that we are actually inside a pyramid, Chuck disappears. 

        Luckily, cell phones have flashlights, and we're able to track him down within minutes. He's wandered off to an adjacent room, climbed onto a shelf, and somehow managed to squeeze himself into an area about half his size.  His sticking out tail gives him away. When he hears his name, he turns himself around.

        BUT when we call for him, he won't come out.

        When we reach for him, he backs up so we can't reach him.

      I open my backpack. "Maybe Chucky wants a snack."

         Chucky's ears tilt forward.  

         I hold out the tidbit, and the standoff is over.

         "Too much stimulation," I say. "We need to go home."    

        Getting out of the pyramid is just as arduous. Climbing up 300 narrow steps in semi-complete darkness while you feel the walls closing in is no picnic. Dan sails up the steps, humming while Chucky say nothing. 

         Outside, with the wind at my back, I climb down the rickety metal staircase to the sand below. Dan and Chuck CRAWL down. 

          Chucky is very quiet on the way back to the hotel as our van maneuvers in between camels, vans and pedestrians. 

        We go swimming in our beautiful built in pool while Chucky watches us from the window of our hotel room. 

         I take a selfie.

     That's when I snap Chucky's photo. The photo where Chucky doesn't quite look like himself.  Where he looks like he's been taken over by some ancient Egyptian devil spirit.

          And that's when I begin to put two and two together. In those few moments when he was out of our sight. In that adjacent cubby hole type room. Did something happen? 

         "What should we do?" 

          Dan is always the voice of reason. "We'll go to dinner, and google how to deal with ancient Egyptian spirits when we get back."

         But there is no need. When we return, the rascal cat is sleeping peacefully. Snoozing. Purring up a storm. We can tell the crisis is averted. 

        Chucky may be a rascal, but he's no devil! 

             

            

             

          

    

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?