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Chuck Almost Meets Cat Daddy Jackson Galaxy

    This story does not have a happy ending.
    The Chuckster does not watch a lot of TV but he has two favorite shows, and both involve cats.
    One is called Must Love Cats.  And the other -- My Cat From Hell.
    Both star cats, of course, and both look at the world of cats from totally different perspectives.
    If you want drama, My Cat From Hell is your obvious choice.
    Cats who seriously misbehave play the starring role.  They are the terror of the household and their owners are desperate for help.  That’s where Jackson Galaxy comes in.  Not your typical cat whisperer.  Tattooed, he arrives with his guitar case filled with cat toys and treats and before the half hour episode is finished, the cat or the guardians of the cat -- as Jackson calls them -- are transformed and peace reigns once again.
    Chuckie remains glued to the set during the entire show.  And when he learned that Jackson Galaxy was on a ten day tour of the United States, promoting his new book Cat Daddy and that he would be appearing within driving distance from our house in Clinton, New Jersey, at the Clinton Book Shop, well, Chuckie was beside himself to meet his hero.
    Now Jackson Galaxy is a star.  Even to the small town of Clinton, New Jersey, he attracted over a hundred people on a late Tuesday afternoon.  Somehow he lured way too many people into a vintage-style book shop, forced them to cram themselves into a tiny space, which was way too hot, even with the fans whirling away, to hear him speak.
    It was magical.
    No one brought their cat.
    Even though the entire show My Cat From Hell revolves around cats, CATS WERE NOT INVITED.
    Chuck did not think that was fair.
    And, as usual, he put on his chuck face and that face can be persuasive.  He went so far as to hide out in my smart bag, in a vain attempt to smuggle his way into the book shop.
    My husband Bob felt sorry for him.  “Give the kid a break.  Let’s take him with us.”
    “There’s no way I can get that cat into the book shop.  The place is going to be mobbed.”
    “You can try.”
    Now, usually, I’m the optimistic, against all odds, kind of person.  I tried my best to reason with the belly boy.  “Chuck, it’s going to be hot as blazes in there.  But if you insist on going, I don’t want to hear a meow out of you.  I mean it.  Not a sound.  If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a glimpse of him.  But that’s it.  He will not be able to pet you.”
    What was I thinking?
    When we arrived, we were way in the back.  The microphone was not state of the art.  It was HOT and STUFFY.  But there was magic in the air.  Plus, I volunteer for a local cat shelter Tabby’s Place, and the book shop was taking up donations for Tabby’s Place, so that was a big plus.
    Jackson Galaxy was cool and funny and just like the way he appears on TV.  He spoke for a few minutes before he sat down and began signing books.  Despite the fact that Chuck was squished into my smart bag, and sweating, the belly boy listened to his every word and then waited patiently as we inched closer and closer to the front.
    Finally, we were the next ones to get our book signed and meet the one and only Jackson Galaxy.  My smart bag was opened, and I had a kind of scarf stretched across the top to disguise the fact that Chuck was hiding inside.  The plan would have worked if Chuck had kept to his side of the bargain.
    He didn’t.
    I guess that’s why he’s got this reputation for being a rascal cat.
    It dawned on Bob and me at about the same time that Chuck had no intention of remaining in the smart bag while I got my autograph and met the great Jackson Galaxy.  Chuck began to squirm big time.  He was literally planning to claw his way out.  Maybe hop onto the table and plop himself, belly and all, right in front of the cat whisperer.  Surprise the hell out of him.
    Harvey, the owner, pointed to me.  “Okay,” he said.  “You’re next.”
    Bob was supposed to stand there with my iphone and take the photo.
    Now we had to think fast.
    Bob handed me the iphone, grabbed the smart bag off my shoulder, and ran toward the front door of the book shop.  Now, luckily, it was so hot inside that the owners had opened the double doors in front, so escape outside, through the front, was easy peasy.
    Although, I’m sure everyone wondered why the hell my husband was suddenly rushing to stand near the front door.
    I, pretending not to notice that my husband was acting crazy, waltzed up calm as could be, holding my Cat Daddy book in one arm and my iphone in the other, and asked Jackson--in a cool twist of irony--to autograph the book to “Kate, Bob and CHUCK.”  
    Then I shook Jackson Galaxy’s hand and told him how much I enjoyed his show.  Of course, I told him ABOUT CHUCK.  His biggest fan.
    Harvey offered to take our photo.  I smiled.  I would deal with Chuck later.  For now--My Cat From Hell--would just have to get over it.

NEWSFLASH:  THERE WILL BE NO NEW WEEKLY BLOG FOR THE MEMORIAL DAY. HAVE A HAPPY HOLIDAY!

To read more about Chuck and his adventures, log onto my website: www.katelutter.com
 
 Wild Point Island, my paranormal romance, is available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.  Recently it was rated 5 Stars by The E Book Reviewers, who said, "At the very core . . . is a multi-level mystery, with plot twists and turns that you never expected. And there is a deep touching love story that grasped my heart and never let go.  This is one book you must go buy now; once you start reading, you won’t be able to put it back down."  
         
 
   
     

Chuck Salutes the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

         Chuck, the rascal cat, did not grow up wanting to be a soldier cat.
      He does not know that much about history.
      But every night when we’re home, he plasters himself on the rug in front of the television and watches the news.
      He knows about Arlington National Cemetery and the eternal flame that burns for President John F. Kennedy.  
      I shouldn’t have been surprised when one day he pointed with his paw to an article about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  
     That is how Chuckie usually communicates with us.
     He wanted to see the ceremony. 
     And with Armed Forces Day coming up, and Memorial Day just around the corner, I thought what better way to honor our soldiers and pay tribute, than to visit this special place.
    From our hotel in Washington, D.C., we took the subway and then walked the rest of the way to Arlington National Cemetery.   At the cemetery we purchased a ticket for the shuttle bus service that rides you around to all the key sights, otherwise it would take hours to walk from sight to sight. 
    On our way to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, I told Chuck that other countries in the world have their own Tomb of the Unknown Soldier  as a way to honor all the soldiers who fight in battle and yet cannot be identified when the war is over.  In fact, it’s key to the concept of this monument that the body buried within the tomb be unidentifiable so that the tomb can maintain its symbolic meaning.  
    The soldier buried in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is there to represent all the soldiers who fought and were never found after the war was over.  
    “Did you get that, Chuck?”
    I can never be sure, but he tilted his head in his usual Chuck fashion and we moved closer to the area where the soldiers go through the ceremony.  
    There is always a crowd.
    On the day we were there, a small group of high school students presented the uniformed soldiers with a wreath to be laid on the tomb.  Approximately eighty tourists stood in respectful silence, watching, as the soldiers followed a very precise pattern of marching back and forth in front of the tomb.  It was both elegant and precise.   
    My usually antsy Chuck went perfectly still as he peeked out of my smart bag.  He watched the soldiers perform their set maneuvers.  The entire ceremony lasted only a few minutes, but it was filled with emotion.  
    Maybe, as you stand there in the cemetery, surrounded by thousands of gravestones, the reality gets to you.
    Each gravestone represents a wounded warrior.  
    A man and woman who gave his or her life selflessly for their country.  
    For our country.   
    To maintain our way of life.  
    For us. 
    When the ceremony was over, I showed Chuck how to salute the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. 
    “It is a sign of respect,” I said.
    Although Chuck usually hates to be told what to do, he didn’t fight me this time.  
    The rascal cat saluted the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.    


          TO READ MORE ABOUT CHUCK AND HIS ADVENTURES, LOG ONTO
             
                                     www.katelutter.com

Wild Point Island, my paranormal romance, is available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.  Recently it was rated 5 Stars by The E Book Reviewers, who said, "At the very core . . . is a multi-level mystery, with plot twists and turns that you never expected. And there is a deep touching love story that grasped my heart and never let go.  This is one book you must go buy now; once you start reading, you won’t be able to put it back down."  

       

Chuck POSES at the Museum of Natural History

       My rascal cat Chuckster is an anomaly.

       He likes to meet other animals.

       When we were in France, I suspect he fell in love with a French cow.

       And in Vienna, Austria, he gave me no peace until he’d stared into the eyes of an orangutan.  

       Once we arrived back in the states, we took a quick jaunt to Washington, D.C., and ever mindful of Chuck’s education, I was eager to take the kid to the National Museum of Natural History.

       Yes, this was my idea because I’d been there before and I thought that Chuckie would get the biggest kick out of their stuffed animal exhibit.

       What was I thinking?

       But I’m getting ahead of myself because this adventure was fraught with challenges.

       If you’ve ever been there, you know it’s a gigantic place--two floors filled with 124 million objects.  Everywhere you’re surrounded by eager tourists struggling to get somewhere else or see something else.  Bodies push and shove their way past you.  There are food lines.  There are lines to get into the the various exhibits, and even though the museum itself is free, there is usually a line to enter into the place past security. 

       Mad house?

       But, of course, it’s worth every aggravating minute.  

       And I was determined to smuggle Chuckie into the museum and show him this exhibit which I’d seen for the first time myself the year before.  

       The animals look so real.  They are coifed and posed.  Magnificent.  

       As we walked to the museum from our hotel, I tried to explain the concept to my rascal cat.  “These animals look real but they aren’t.  Not like you.  They are fake.  So there’s no need to be afraid.”

       When Chuck is trying to figure something out, his cat eyes become enlarged, and he tends to tilt his head sideways.  I could only imagine what he was thinking.

       And, yes, I do believe that cats can think.  Or plot and scheme.

       He had that very expression on his face.  

       “No, there aren’t any cats on exhibit.  We’re talking big game animals here.  For example, the giraffe.  The monkey.  Safari animals.” 

       I had his attention all right.  

       But the kid looked nervous.

       And he’s not a fan of having to stay all scrunched up in my smart bag.

       Chuckie likes to go places where he can pop out of my bag and run around. 

       Let’s face it, his Top Ten List of places to go does not include--M-U-S-E-U-M-S.  But, I figured, this place was special and not at all typical. 

       We snuck into the place.  Surprisingly, that wasn’t a problem.  (I can’t explain why Chuckie glided through the metal detector and the scanner and wasn’t detected. Or, maybe he was, and the guys that do the detecting couldn’t believe what they were seeing--an orange and white overweight cat stuffed into someone’s smart bag?)

       Rather than press our luck, we scooted to the stuffed animal exhibit.  

       Then I figured our success lay in the timing.  Wait until the exhibit was near deserted then I would let Chuck out to see “up close and personal” the animals on display.  

       Bob volunteered to be the “look out,” and he stood at the end of the long hallway that stretches through the exhibit with the animals.   

       Finally Bob gave the signal, and out popped Chuck.  And he stopped.  Clearly mesmerized, he scanned the animals on display.  

       And this is where the “belly boy” surprised me.

       Chuck wasn’t interested in the elephant or the giraffe, or even the leopard who was posed near his prey. Oh, no.  Without hesitation, Chuck did his best imitation of a moonwalk toward the bat.  Which means--he walked very slowly.  And he proceeded to stare at him.  

       Now, you don’t see bats on display everyday, I grant you that. 

       Then Chuck did something even more amazing.  

       Taking his cue from the animals around him, he POSED.

       He stuck his nose forward.  His tail went rigid.  He put himself into a kind of hunting pose.  Very focused.  As if he were competing.  

       I reached into my smart bag for my camera.  

       This was just too good to be true.

       Chuck POSING at the National Museum of Natural History.

       I aimed my camera and was about to click when . . .

       Bob let out a whistle.

       Chuck heard the signal.

       I, of course, was too enticed with the idea of capturing the rascal cat on my digital camera to display for the rest of the world . . . for my blog . . .to even think about what Bob was trying to tell me . . . warn me about . . .

       But, unfortunately, there wasn’t time to even click the shot.   

       “Kate, c’mon.  People are coming,” Bob shouted down the hallway at the very moment that Chuck dropped the POSE.  

       Gosh darn.

       I whipped open my smart bag as lots of voices resounded in the hallway.

       Chuck hopped back in.

       The moment was forever lost. 

       Gee, but the memory was sweet.

       TO READ MORE CHUCK, LOG ONTO WWW.KATELUTTER.COM

    

Chuck Meets an Orangutan

    Chuck wanted to meet an orangutan.

    That’s basically what started the adventure to the zoo.

    I wanted to visit the Schonbrunn Zoo for a thousand reasons, one of which included the fact that this fabulous Baroque-style zoo housed an orangerie which housed Vienna’s orangutans.  And who doesn’t want to come face to face with an orangutan?

    But, as we rode the subway system that afternoon to the zoo, I tried to explain to my rascal cat that the zoo had so much more to offer.

    “Chuck, this zoo is the oldest zoo in existence.  Do you realize that Emperor Franz I technically first brought visitors to see his menagerie of interesting animals behind the palace back in 1752?  Today that site--the zoo--is considered a UNESCO world heritage site.”

    When I ramble on and on and throw out what I consider interesting historical facts, Chuck always looks amazingly bored.  If you can, imagine the three of us (Chuck, my husband, and myself) riding in a subway car, ever alert for our stop, while I am whispering this pseudo lecture to Chuck, who is semi-stuffed in my smart bag.  He is not a happy camper. Because all he wants to do is to meet an orangutan.

    When we reach our stop, we climb the stairs to the outside and walk the few blocks to the Schonbrunn Palace, then follow the path to the zoo.  There will be no escape for Chuck because I’m determined to tell him what I know about this wonderful place.

    “Listen, there are over two millions visitors who come from all over the world each year.”
 
     Chuck, by now his head clearly visible out of the smart bag, is busy gazing around as we traverse a little used path to the zoo.
 
 “The zoo has more than 500 animal species and is considered one of the most modern zoos in the world.”

    Chuck shoots me a glance, and I wonder if he understands the concept of species or even cares, for that matter.

    “Okay, but Schonbrunn was voted the best zoo in Europe in 2009 and 2010.”

    We reach the entrance gate, and Chuck ducks back down as we pay our fee.

    Inside, we waste no time getting our bearings and scoping out the surroundings.  It will take us ten minutes to walk to the orangutan exhibit.  Chuck seems to be interested in little else.  But that’s how he is.  Once he puts his mind to something, he cannot be distracted.

    Finally, we arrive, and we are lucky that for the moment, the exhibit is  practically deserted.  A few moms with babies in strollers are nearby, but we have the perfect moment for my rascal cat to emerge and do what he’s been dying to do all day--meet an orangutan.

    I have no idea how this will go or what Chuck actually intends to do.

    I watch as he hops out of my bag and lands on the sand in front of the glass wall that separates the orangutan from us.

    The orangutan glances over and spots us.  Slowly, he meanders over in that lovely orangutan way, his long hairy arms propelling him along the grassy ground, until he can’t get any closer.  He presses his face up to the glass.

    Chuck peeks up at the orangutan, and the orangutan looks down at my cheeky boy in what I would call “wide-eyed” wonder.

    Obviously, they are curious about each other.

    I wonder--if the glass wasn’t there--if they would shake--hand to paw.

    But they don’t, of course.

    And I know little to nothing about orangutans at that moment, and ever worried about my Chuck, the horrid thought shoots through my head-- would this orangutan eat my cat, if he had the chance??

    Later, I do research and discover that orangutans don’t eat cats.  In fact, orangutans eat mostly tropical fruit, leaves, bark, sprouts, and insects.  They are also highly intelligent and use tools to forage for food.  Interestingly enough, they are also bothered, like humans are,  by mosquitoes.

    When the all too brief encounter is over, the orangutan shifts away from the glass.

    “Are you happy now, Chuck?”

    Chuck watches as this giant red ape saunters back to where he was originally, and I wonder if this was the first time this orangutan ever saw a cat?

    All I know is that this is the first time my cat has seen an orangutan.

    And I would bet all the rice in China that he’ll never forget it.

    IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ MORE, LOG ONTO WWW.KATELUTTER.COM

   Wild Point Island, my paranormal romance, is available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.  Recently it was rated 5 Stars by The E Book Reviewers, who said, "At the very core . . . is a multi-level mystery, with plot twists and turns that you never expected. And there is a deep touching love story that grasped my heart and never let go.  This is one book you must go buy now; once you start reading, you won’t be able to put it back down."  

       

 
 

Chuck Visits Charles Bridge for Good Luck

Does a cat even need good luck?

 But let me start from the beginning.

 Prague, the capital of The Czech Republic, is a beautiful city to visit. The ancient Victorian style buildings make you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time. There are cable cars that run down the main street of Prague. And when you’re sure that you can’t absorb even one more quaint shop or cobblestone street, there is the Charles Bridge, an icon, which I have to admit, I hadn’t heard of until I came to Prague.

 Now, I suspect, that Chuck learned of the bridge from that cow he met in France, when they were snuggled together near the barn. She probably told him all about the bridge, probably told him that he was NAMED AFTER THE BRIDGE.

 That part isn’t true. Chuck (and he’s heard this story a million times) was named after a good friend of ours, who also happens to be a rascal. The Charles Bridge had nothing to do with it. Anyway, I’m sure that’s the reason why Chuck was inspired, almost obsessed, with the need to see the bridge and walk it.

Once we arrived in Prague, Chuck could think about nothing else. Now, luckily, the Charles Bridge was about a twenty minute walk from our hotel. So, the next morning, early, we hiked to the bridge, amidst the early morning mist and when we arrived, I filled the Chuckster in with what I call the “bridge background” as we admired the stone structure before us.

 After all, this wasn’t any ordinary bridge. This bridge had history. “This bridge is old,” I told him. “Construction began in 1357 under King Charles IV.” And as I said those words, I thought about how old this bridge was. I mean 1357. That’s old. Really old. “It was finally finished at the beginning of the 15th Century, and it was the only way to cross the Vitava River until 1841.

 In fact, this bridge connected the Prague Castle with Old Town and made Prague an important trade route between Eastern and Western Europe.” In other words, I thought this to myself because the Chuckster is adverse to too much explanation, without this bridge, Prague would have been NOWHERE instead of a very hopping place. Chuck shifted a bit in my arms, and I knew even with my brief explanations, he was anxious to get on the bridge.

 “Now you’ll notice, the bridge is made of stone, and it was called the Stone Bridge until 1870 when it was re-named the Charles Bridge.”

 Chuck made as if to jump down. If I wasn’t going to take him to the bridge, he had plans to get there himself. But I held him a bit tighter and kept on talking. “This bridge has seen floods, executions, and battles.” And I would have described some of the executions, but there was more squirming.

 “Chuck, I’m telling you this for a reason.”

 The squirming stopped.

 “When you’re trotting across, notice all the statues. There are 30 different baroque style statues, the most famous statue, of course is John of--”

 I never finished my sentence.

 Chuck took off, leaping out of my arms, in a super strong twisting fashion, heading across that bridge like a rascal boy with a mission. Where the hell was he going? Luckily, we were there early and the bridge was almost completely deserted.

 Which is not the usual state of affairs.

 The Charles Bridge is famous and besides the millions of tourists that visit each year, the bridge is jammed with painters, vendors and kiosks.

 I took off after him and by the time I caught up with him . . .

 There Chuck was--poised in front of the most famous statue.

 I finished my sentence. “John of Nepumuk. National Saint of the Czech Republic. Who was drowned in the Vitava River by King Wenceslaus because he refused to tell the King what the Queen had told him.”

 Chuck looked up at me.

 I knew what he wanted.

 Good Luck.

 It’s an old wives tale.

 Rub the statue for good luck.

 Sure enough, you can see the green has actually been rubbed off the statue where so many people have touched John the Nepumuk to get their share of the luck.

 I lifted the belly boy up and he ever so delicately placed his paw on the statue.

 “Did that girl cow put you up to this?” I asked, needing to know.

 But Chuck didn’t answer. Not that I thought he would.

 And Chuck, who’d had enough of being a rascal for one morning, snuggled close afterwards, as we walked across the Charles Bridge and admired the view, not once, but twice, and then we headed back to the hotel for breakfast because, after all, we don’t call him “Belly Boy” for nothing.

Chuck Makes Eyes at French Cow

We flew to France to see the sights--the touristy sights--the Eiffel Tower, Giverny (where Monet painted some of his most famous Impressionistic works), the Luxembourg Gardens (where Chuck almost drowned in a fountain), the incomparable Mona Lisa and so it was time to leave the big city behind and venture into the French countryside.

Well, the truth of the matter was--Chuck wanted to see some cows.

French cows.

Now, are French cows different from American cows or English cows?

I didn’t have the answer for that. And neither did Chuck, but since my ever wiley, rascally cat always seems to have an agenda, I suspected the answer to Chuck’s obsession with French cows had more to do with the farm that we decided to visit than with the cows themselves.

You see, this particular farm, located in the Normandy region of France, near the seaport town of Deauville, where we were staying, was an apple farm which specialized in making a famous French apple brandy--Calvados--a peculiar French word pronounced with a heavy stress on the “ss” sound at the end. And there just happened to be some cows who lived on this farm.

Chuck said he wanted to see the cows, but did he really just want to sample the Calvadossss?

If you’re like me, you never heard of Calvados--never knew that this innocent looking usually gold-colored liquid in the glass, distilled from apple cider, which had the distinct aroma of apples, apricots, butterscotch, nuts, and even chocolate, is aged for a minimum of two years in oak casks and is considered one of France’s culinary specialties--along with cider and cheese--in the region. People mostly drink Calvados for an aperitif but there are some French traditions which demand that you drink Calvados--glass after glass--between each of many courses, during the entire meal.

The Normandy Region is the most visited area in France. Some say it’s because of the green countryside, some point to the seaside, and others point to the Calvados. Chuck, of course, swears it’s the cows.

When we arrived at the farm, I have to admit the area was beautiful. And sure enough, Chuck immediately seemed to be taken by this lovely French cow who was lounging in the field near the farmhouse where we were supposed to be going.

Of course, we made a detour.

The people we were with, hurried to the tasting table, where glasses were lined up, filled with Calvados, and I thought for sure that’s where Chuch would want to be, too. But he kept craning his neck out of my smart bag, gazing off in the direction of the cow.

No big deal, I thought. We could always saunter over to the Calvados later.

But, again, I had my anxieties, now knowing how a cat would get on with a cow. And what was the attraction?

“Now, Chuck, just don’t go running over there. Proceed with caution. You may like her. (I assumed it was a her.) But who knows how she feels about you. And besides,”I added, I can’t even tell you why, “she’s French. She speaks French.”

Chuck wiggled out of my backpack, hopped to the ground and, with nary a glance back, scooted to the fence and hung over the railing, and just stared.

I stopped mid-step and waited.

Was the kid waiting for some kind of signal from her?

Sure enough, they seemed to be making eye-contact.

Then she--the French cow--let out a kind of “moooooo.”

Was that French for “Come on over?”

In an instant, Chuck hopped over the bottom railing and ran over to her. He lifted his face up to hers. She leaned down and sniffed him. And then he did what I would have never expected from this rambunctious lad.

He laid down next to her, so close that the snout of his face touched her arm.

All I could think of was--sweet.

And then, now what?

I saw this segment on Sixty Minutes where a dog and an elephant formed a relationship that lasted for years. I couldn’t imagine leaving my Chuck behind if he were suddenly to declare that he had a “thing” for this cow.

It turned out that the fact that she spoke French wasn’t important. Theirs was the language of love. (OK, I admit it--I write romance novels.)

We finally did make it to the Calvados tasting table. And, yeah, Chuckie did have a sip. But he’s not into brandy all that much. More curious than anything about the gold liquid swirling around in the glass . . .

As we were leaving the farm, Chuckie, my rascal cat, did run back to the lovely cow for one last sniff and, well, I have no idea what went on between them.

And I guess I’ll never know because on the way back to Deauville and even in the hotel afterwards, Chuck wasn’t talking.