Rascal Chuck and the Disappearing Cat

          It's been two weeks and one day. But who's counting? Chucky and Theo are still in separate rooms. We've taken down the baby gate. Closed the bedroom door.  And, yes, you might say we're moving backwards . . . and it's all because of what happened two Sundays ago.

        I wouldn't be exaggerating to say that Theo completely disappeared. One minute he's in the study upstairs, hanging out, and I'm practicing piano. I leave the room, baby gate intact, to make dinner. I come back up an hour later, and he's gone. 

        The room is approximately 20 feet by 15 feet.  Three chairs, two tables, four bookcases, a filing cabinet and a piano. No Theo. I look everywhere. Underneath everything. Rick Gillis in 2002 in Cat's Structure says that "Unlike human arms, cat forelimbs are attached to the shoulder by free-floating clavicle bones, which allows them to pass their body through any space into which they can fit their heads." This fact gives them a strange flexibility to squeeze into tight corners, between narrow crevices . . . 

        We widened the search to the house. Dan and I rip the place apart. We figure he must have slithered between the slats of the baby gate and is now on the loose. Chucky had developed this habit of perching near the baby gate. He would stare into the room, straight at Theo, as if he were attempting to put him into some kind of mystical trance. Theo didn't like it, and we theorized, he finally made a run for it and was now hiding somewhere.

        We can't find him. 

         Then I have a horrible thought. Earlier Dan has gone through the kitchen, opened the door to the garage and taken out the recycling. Theo most likely followed him.

         He must be . . . OUTSIDE. As I pronounce these words, like a scene in the movies, I hear the DUN, da DUN, da DUN sound which means something bad is about to happen. Then the dark clouds hovering over our house for the last couple of hours let loose and begin dumping buckets of rain everywhere.

        Dan opens the front door and looks out. "He could be anywhere."

        "I know."

        "He doesn't even know his name yet."

         "I know."

         "And he has an hour head start."

         "He's our responsibility. How can I go back to Tabby's Place and tell them I lost him?"

          We stay outside for close to an hour. We wear inadequate rain jackets that barely keep us dry. The backyard turns into a flood zone. We scour under bushes. Look under cars. 

           I feel sick inside. I am the worst cat mother. Ever. 

           Like two drowned rats, we come back into the house. Dan flops on the sofa. I go back to the study and go through the entire room again. I want to find him so bad. 

            I get a brainstorm. Chucky is pacing outside in the hallway. 

            "Chucky." I let him in the study. There are a thousand things I can say to him. He should have been nicer to his brother. This is the moment when he can make up for his not so nice deeds. But I know from experience it is better to be short and sweet.

            "Inspector Chuck Clouseau, FIND THEO."

             One thing Chucky can do well is sniff.  And sniff he does. He starts from one end of the room, and like the last time, he methodically smells each and every object he comes across. Until he stops. 

            Now, that's odd, because he's stopped directly in front of the massive barcalounger that sits in the corner of the room. 

            "C'mon, Chuck."

            He looks back at me. 

            I've searched underneath that chair.  At least a thousand times since Theo has disappeared. No . . . it's not possible. But Chuck is adamant. He won't budge. If he had a pointer finger, he would be literally pointing at the chair. If he were a dog, he would be . . . Well, finally I get it.

            I put all my weight against the chair and tilt it backwards, craning to see upwards, into the inner workings of the chair.

             Two little eyes peek back at me. 

               We've had that chair for ten years and never knew there's a compartment big enough for Theo to climb into. And sleep in for the last four hours. 

             Carefully, I put the chair down. Theo is safe and sound. He hasn't drowned in the freak storm that is presently pummeling our house. He hasn't been hit by a car and is lying defenseless and hurt in the middle of some street. He isn't lost somewhere. 

            Chucky, meanwhile, has sauntered over to Theo's food and is calmly munching away. 

            "Chucky, you're my hero!" I cry out, but he barely hears me. 

            That's how cat heroes are, I suspect. They don't need praise or snacks as motivation to do the right thing. Well, maybe they can do without the praise . . . but never the snacks. Oh, no. 

                 P.S.  When I'm not traveling the world with the rascal cat, I'm writing. The Blue Medallion, my latest novel, weaves together adventure, fantasy, and romance as Lily, the heroine, searches for redemption and love.

                 She doesn't know that the sacrifice she is called to make to fulfill her destiny will change her life forever.    

                  Available on Amazon in paperback 10.99 or kindle 2.99.

                  Follow the link for more information: 

             The Blue Medallion

     

       

The Rascal Cat Can't Sing!

    "Egypt is more than just pyramids," I tell Chucky as we're in the midst of our next adventure. This morning we're 60 miles northwest of Cairo, visiting a famous monastery called Dier Anba Bishoi in Wadi El-Natroun, surrounded by a desert consisting of salt lakes and salt flats. The Egyptians used to extract salt from here. The Christians established their monasteries here dating back to the 4th century.

        Dier Anna Bishoi or St. Bishoi Monastery is named after patron St. Bishoi, who immigrated here and lived in solitude. It is one of five churches and is used only in the summer. It is an oasis with greenery and palm trees.

 

   

        Everything about this place is old. We move from room to room. Chucky is in seventh heaven. The priest takes one look at Chucky, assumes he is a cat who lives at the monastery, and doesn't give him a second glance. Which is good news because this place is a wonderland for Chuck. He is sniffing to his heart's content. 

             We're greeted by a very charismatic priest who gives us a tour and recounts some of the highlights of the monastery's history--the destruction that was done and the many restorations over the thousands of years. Most notably there is a well on the property called the Well of Martyrs where, you guessed it, martyrs were thrown down to their death centuries ago. Today the well still produces fresh water, which is considered to be a miracle.

  

        We pass ancient signs, frescoes, pottery laid out on tables that was used centuries ago and realize that even though this place is a working monastery, it is in many respects also a museum of sorts. 

        Out of the blue, and this is how the universe works, at times, we're invited to a baptism. Now I've attended plenty of baptisms in my day, but never one in a monastery in a desert in Egypt performed in Arabic. 

        Out of nowhere, or so it seems, people have arrived and are filling up a beautifully decorated room--standing around, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Dan and I, and Chuck melt into the crowd. 

 

       

         Another priest arrives and the baptism procession begins. 

              There is incense, cymbal clanging, clapping, singing, chanting and an overall festive atmosphere. Dan is busy snapping photos. I'm in awe, watching everyone as they gather around the parents and the newborn.

        And then I hear him. At first--what is that sound? It's not quite singing--a kind of mixture of mewing and meowing and . . . "Chuck, shshsh."

        But Chucky, who is plastered to my side (thank God), is swaying in time to the chanting that is reverberating through the room. But his singing sounds more like caterwauling. Which is getting louder and louder.

        I'm not going to panic. But I imagine a cat interrupting a baptism would not face an easy fate. I can see it all now--masked men swooping him up and dropping him in the Well of Martyrs!

        I have to get him to stop singing. But he is just so darned cute. I hate to interrupt his reverie. Is anyone else noticing that he's horribly off key? The rascal cat can do many things well, but he can't sing!! 

          I kneel down next to him. "Chucky, no more singing, honey."

          He looks up at me.

          At that exact moment, everything around me goes quiet. 

          I place my finger on Chucky's lips. 

          The priest recites a prayer in Arabic. 

          Chucky goes silent. Is it a miracle? Or . . . I look over my shoulder. Dan, Mr. Hero Man, holds out a luscious treat and Chucky, needing to make a decision, chooses to eat and not sing.  

          Crisis is averted. No masked men will be coming for Chucky. The Well of Martyrs will not claim another innocent victim. I heave a sigh of relief. 

           We've learned one valuable lesson: the rascal cat can do many fabulous things but he can't sing!

Chuck's New Brother--Adopted or Abducted?

               Adopting a cat is an adventure. Tabby's Place is a privately owned no kill shelter which houses over 100 cats. The cats live in suites, not cages. If things don’t work out, you can bring the cat back. That part is great. 

 

            But, you have to fill out an adoption form—mega pages long—and convince this wonderful shelter you will make decent enough cat parents. Tabby's Place sees these cats as precious as children. You sign a contract to treat them in a loving and humane way. 

 

            If you’re integrating a cat with another cat or cats, there is a protocol to follow. Don’t for a moment think you can bring the cat home and plop him in the middle of the living room and let him fend for himself amidst a menagerie of the dogs and cats you might already have living there. Oh, no. 

            And, then, there was Chucky. Did he even want another brother? Yes and no. He liked the idea of having a younger brother, but he was also afraid and nervous. He was number one cat now in the house. Would he somehow become number two cat when a younger, cuter cat arrived?

 

            Dan and I spotted Theo first online and then we had a meet and greet in Suite E, where Theo lived since March with about 15 other cats. He was rescued from an animal testing laboratory. 

            I was smitten from the first. Big eyes. Mostly brown tabby. Extremely shy. Which usually means hard to find someone to adopt him. Everyone wants a friendly cat!

 

          

         “Don’t worry. We’re naming him after Theodore Roosevelt. Calling him Theo for short. And pronouncing Theo the Italian way—Teo (the e is short). "If we believe in him, name him after a famous explorer and brave man, this shy boy will rise to the occasion."

 

            Bree, who is working Adoption that day, hands me meds—just in case he’s so scared he doesn’t eat. A giant alarm rings in my head--we might have a challenge here. 

 

            Bringing him home in the carrier is no trouble. He’s as quiet as a mouse. We decide to put him temporarily in our study--and it’s waiting for him with liter, water fountain, two cat beds, two feeding bowls, and toys.

 

            Twice, Chucky comes to the study door that we’ve carefully closed—giving Theo a chance to acclimate to one room. Chucky sniffs and sniffs. I know the question that Chucky wants answered.

 

            “Hey, mom, is he in there? How long is he going to stay?”

 

            “Theo’s in there. You new little brother.”

 

            “Can I see him?”

 

            That’s tricky. I know that more time should pass. It’s way too soon to let the two of them meet face to face. 

 

I’ve been advised that before they meet, we should do what is called a sniff exchange. Take something that has Chucky’s smell on it and give it to Theo and vice versa. Also, we should install a baby gate at the door so they can see each other and sniff each other with the gate between them. THEN if all goes well . . .

 

But Chucky is one of these mellow cats. And he’s very insistent.

Theo has his own version of the story: 

"I want to meet my older brother. But, basically, I was minding my own business, see, and you two came and abducted me, threw me into a carrier, put a blanket over it so I couldn't see a thing, brought me to a house, locked me into a room. And all you two want to do is pet me." Yeah, he kind of speaks like a gangster even though he looks as cute as pie.

"It's going to be okay, Theo."

"This other cat . . . do I know him? My older brother?"

"He wants to meet you, Theo."

 

I do the worst possible thing. When I open the door to the study, Chucky sneaks in. Theo is at the end of the room, squeezed in the tiniest space on a lower book shelf. Minutes go by as Chucky, like a cat version of Inspector Clouseau, sniffs the entire room. I figure he’ll head straight for Theo. But, no, he’s maddeningly thorough as he moves from object to object, space to space, until finally he manages to make it across the room. He comes face to face with his new little brother.

 

He stares for a second and moves even closer. I hold my breath.

 

         Theo does nothing. (Is that a good sign or a bad sign?)

 

          Chucky lets out a huge hiss which reverberates through the room and practically shakes the house down.

          Theo counters with a growl that sounds like it's coming from the throat of a lion, who must be hiding somewhere in our study because little Theo couldn't possibly have made that growl!

 

          Faster than a speeding bullet, I whisk Chuck away. All my beliefs that the rascal cat is the lover of peace and good will fly out the window. 

          But what did I expect? I know it's not Chucky's fault. He sees Theo as an intruder. "This is my house," he's probably thinking. "No cat--even if he is my younger brother--is going to come in here and take over, eat my snacks  . . ."

          Bree later explains that Theo has come to Chucky's house, not only with his own smell, but the smell of all 15 kitties who lived with him in Suite E. When Chucky was sniff, sniff, sniffing the study, he was registering all the smells and probably figuring there was a menagerie of cats lying in wait for him. Not just one scaredy cat.

          Now we understand. Patience. Chucky needs more time. 

           Days go by. Chucky stays in the hallway, on his side of the door, even though he does camp outside the door in protest. Theo examines every square inch of the study. He refuses to eat in the beginning, and I think he's going on a hunger strike, but he's just nervous. When we go into the study, we often find him camped out on the other side of the door, equally curious as to what's on the other side.

    

        So what's next? After many days, maybe even a week or two, we will try the sniff exchange and then install the baby gate and if all goes well, we might be able to make a proper introduction.  No hissing. No growling. 

            There is such a thing as brotherly love, right?

        

Who Is the Rascal Cat Chuck, Really?

                Chuck, the rascal cat, loves to travel. But, as you can well guess, he’s not on the road 365 days a year. So, here’s a peek into Chucky’s life when he’s not risking his life and doing all those crazy things we love him for.

 

How Chuck Came to Be:

 

            First things first: I like to say that I adopted Chuck, but the truth is—he adopted me. He was rescued from a field near a paint ball factory. From the first day he was rough and ready—a bit feral—but I still remember the first time I saw him. He was bouncing up and down, doing everything he could to get my attention. His twin sister, Ella, stood quietly by his side. Chuck and Ella were the first orange and white cats I’d ever brought home, and I wasn’t at all prepared for their bigger than life personalities. Here, I’d like to give a big shout out to Tabby’s Place—a cat rescue shelter—that housed Chucky and his twin and to Karina, who rescued him and tried to knock some civilization into him.

 

His Older Brother, Jack

 

            I had help when I brought the rascal home. Jack, my tuxedo cat, the alpha male of the house, made sure that Chucky minded his manners. If he did something that Jack didn’t like, he would nip the tip of Chucky’s ear, and then look up at me, as if to say—I had to do it, Mom. I immediately gave Jack carte blanche to do anything within reason. Chucky was wild in his younger years. He’d climb Christmas trees and cat body slam any feline out of the way if it meant he could get at their food. He also had to go outside everyday—rain or shine. Like the mailman. He didn’t care if his paws got wet or muddy. Let’s just say he got nipped a lot by Jack.

 

His Twin Sister, Ella

 

            Ella also kept Chucky in line. One day Chucky went outside and disappeared for about an hour. We learned later that he’d discovered a catmint garden a few houses down and couldn’t resist raiding the garden and getting high. When he finally returned home, tipsy but happy as can be, before I could say a word, Ella marched over, gave him a good sniff, let loose with a few choice words, and smacked him in the face. Chucky ducked his head, but he didn’t say a word. He knew he deserved whatever Ella dished out. Truth was he hated disappointing her and kept a watchful eye on her always. But the two of them together—what mischief they could get up to.

 

His Older Sister, Molly

 

            Molly was a very petite cat, part Ragdoll, who Chucky insisted on playing with, even when she wasn’t interested. He’d stalk her from room to room, and then when no one was looking, he’d leap on top of her. We’d hear a louder than loud meow coming from the upstairs landing. Chucky’s weight on top of her practically squished the life out of her. Needless to say, Molly forever greeted Chucky with a hiss, which he couldn’t quite understand. All he wanted to do was play.

 

 

You Can’t Go Home Again

 

            I’d like to say that the four cats lived happily ever after, but as time went on . . . Molly went over the rainbow bridge first, then Ella, and then just recently Jack.

 

            It’s hard to know what to say to the one that stays behind. We, of course, gave Chuck extra hugs and kisses and lots of treats. We tried to keep the routine. I even became a cat for a day.

            Finally, we're ready to talk about the future. 

 

            “Chuck, Mom and Dad want to bring home a brother for you.”

 

            Chucky makes a soft meow. (It's only recently that he realizes that Jack isn’t coming back home. That he didn’t just go to the hospital. This time. That Jack actually walked across that rainbow bridge.)

 

            “What do you think, Chuck?”

 

            Chuck looks up thoughtfully from his snack.

 

            “We’re going on Monday to hang out with him for a while. Do you want to come?”

             As I ask the question, I'm wondering if it's a good idea to bring Chuck with us. After all, there's a certain protocol to bringing a new cat into a household. We have our eye on a little boy, three years old, who's been rescued from a laboratory that did testing on animals. He's bound to be shy and will need some time to adjust to his new surroundings. And Chuck will still need to feel that he's loved and not being replaced by the new kid on the block. 

             Before he has a chance to say anything, I interject, "We'll tell you all about him when we get home."

                                       To be continued . . .

 

            

Chuck and His Journey to the AfterLife

        What do you do with a cat who has a crazy idea? The rascal cat somehow got it in his head that if he climbed on board an Egyptian solar boat, built and buried for the pharaohs thousands of years ago and now rebuilt and put on display, he could be transported to paradise.

      Yes, that paradise--the afterlife, the land of milk and honey where life is beautiful all the time. 

      I knew that Chuck's misconception was the result of half listening as Dan and I discussed whether we should or shouldn't stop and see this amazing boat. We were in Giza, and after we passed the luscious looking Sphinx, whose sole purpose was to guard all the pyramids:

 it was a hop, skip and jump to reach the Solar Boat Museum. We were only trying to figure out what the archaeologists actually believed was true about this boat.

      The debate centers on whether the boat was built and buried near where the pharaoh was buried BUT was only meant to be symbolic--a way that the pharaoh would ascend to the heavens, after death, to be with his father. OR was the boat built to be actually used during the funeral to move the body of the pharaoh in the river to the pyramid, where he was buried. 

     Some scholars claim there was evidence the boat had been in water. Other experts point to the fact that shavings of cedar and acacia found in the pit where it was buried indicate it was located near where the pyramids were.

     To further complicate the matter, the boat was the right size to serve as a river craft, but a mast was never found. 

      Chucky doesn't care about any of these arguments. He latches on to one fact and one fact only. The pharaoh used this boat to get to paradise. 

       We are walking along the side area that is set up for visitors to view the assembled boat, which is massive. You have to figure the boat was built for a pharaoh. The pyramids were gigantic. The boat would have to be super sized too. 

        There are a few people around, but not many. This is not a very popular exhibit. Chucky is itching to get down, but we're nervous that if we let him loose, he'll actually make a jump for the boat. 

        The kid always has had a super active imagination. 

        Dan tries to assuage my anxieties. "Chuck is very pragmatic. He's not going to make a jump for it. He'd never make it and most likely plunge to his death. He'll just stare at that boat for awhile. He'll reach his own conclusion."

        I'm not as confident. We're talking about a kid who's climbed a palm tree. Who climbed into a space capsule. 

        Dan is in the process of setting Chuck down. My heart is beating furiously. I wedge my body between Chuck and the boat. I have to think of something to say to him to convince him that getting on that boat is a bad idea. I need a powerful argument. 

        Chucky is leaning to the right to look around me. He is clearly fascinated with this boat.  Is he dreaming of his journey to the afterlife?  

        I decide in a last minute desperate attempt to keep my cat alive that I will go along with this ridiculous idea.

       "O.K. Chuck, but, just know. There's no coming back. You'll never see me or dad or Jack (his brother) again."

        Chucky shrugs.

        "O.K. You'll never get another . . . snack again." I put on a very sad face. 

        Dan echoes my statement. "Not another snack again."

        I repeat. "No more snacks."

       And then I do, what I think I'll never do, I step aside. 

        Chucky walks to the edge and stares at the boat. Then he turns and comes back to us. He doesn't say a word. I heave a sigh of relief. 

        Dan says, "I think he should get two snacks when we get home."

        "Absolutely," I agree. I pick up this rascal cat and give him a big hug. 

        It's only later, as I mull over the facts of the incident, that I ask Dan in the car going back to the hotel, "Do you think he really was going to jump or was he just playing us?"