[Here’s a guest blog from my cat. We just moved to an apartment in a new city, and he seems to have lots of opinions about the whole thing. I did the transcription and translation, so any errors in the manuscript are my own.]
Okay, first of all, he didn’t even ask me if I was interested in moving. He just tells me. And it’s not like I didn’t figure it out by then anyway. I mean, I saw him accumulating moving boxes in the corner of the dining room, and going through closets and the attic and basement throwing a bunch of stuff away. But he doesn’t once ask how I feel about moving. Well, for the record, I didn’t want to move. I liked the old place. Lots of room to run around, a nice cool basement to relax in when it got warm upstairs, and the whole outdoors thing. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Honestly I could tell something was up a while ago, even before the boxes. I’m talking, like, back in early fall last year. He was just extra emotional there for a while. I don’t mean, like, weepy and sad or anything; more like cranky. Or sometimes just blank. He’d come back at 9:00 or so at night from whatever the hell he did all day and not even sit at the table doing the paperwork stuff I used to walk on. He’d just show up, go to the computer for about five minutes, then bam—off to bed. In the morning, he’d pick me up, give me a little half-hearted rub behind the ears and then let me outside right away. So I could tell something was up.
But then about two weeks ago, everything got really freaky. The first big sign was when—back in May I think this was—he brought all these boxes home in the car. Like two or three trips worth. And they were full. Smelled like books to me. He stacked ‘em up in the dining room where all the empty boxes were. Then, suddenly, he was throwing more stuff out. He’d have strangers over looking at stuff and sometimes leaving with it. He set up boxes and then wander from room to room collecting stuff to put in them. I tried to stay outside during this whole thing, partly to stay out of his way—cuz he got pissed when I’d climb in the boxes—but also because, honestly, I was sulking a little. I mean, it’s one thing to not even bother asking me about moving; it’s another thing completely to not even mention it once it was patently obvious that’s what was happening. For a while I wasn’t even sure if he was planning on taking me with him. Which would be so like him. I mean, I’ve worked with him for about five years now. Ever since he hired me from that temp agency called the Kingsport Animal Shelter. I’d be just like him not to even give me two weeks notice. Okay, so maybe I’m being a little harsh. The pay was good and he was mostly easy to manage, but still. I guess I’m not too objective about the whole thing.
Right, so anyway, then the first of the big days happens: he comes home in this big-ass truck and has a bunch of women and another guy over. I get the hell out of there and hunker down across the street in the brush where that bitchy possum sometimes hangs out. I can see the whole operation from there. Just as I suspected, they’re loading stuff out of the house. Hours later, the visitors leave, he jumps in the truck, and takes off without so much as a “see ya later.”
He’s gone for two days. Yeah, don’t mind me. I’ll just sleep outside with the skunks and whatnot. Ass.
Then he comes back in the middle of the night and sleeps on the floor. He packs some more stuff, and this time puts out some food for me. I’m like, “Screw you, I’ll eat mice,” and I run out the door. From my hiding spot under the neighbor’s tool shed, I can see he jump in the car and drive off again.
He’s back the next day this time. With company, again. This tall skinny guy who keeps whistling some irritating tune and a girl who seems nice enough, but doesn’t get that I’m not quick to make friends, particularly now, and, no, I don’t want to come say hello, thank you. I hide in the basement while they putz around upstairs. Those two take off, with some of our stuff, my client putters around for several more hours, then again falls asleep on the floor.
Next morning, the guy from the first moving day is back and they load a bunch of stuff in his little blue pick-up, bound for god-knows-where. Can’t be too far, though, cuz they’re back in, like, an hour. While they’re gone, I check out the house from the exterior window sills. It’s empty. His car in the carport is filled to overflowing, and that damn cage of his is sitting in the front seat. You know, that cage that he always stuffs me in when he brings me to those assholes who fondle and poke and jab me with needles? That one. If he wants me to leave with him now, he’s gonna have to wait it out.
So I hide. I’m not telling where, in case I need to use that place again sometime. Meanwhile, Dumbass is wandering around the yard calling my name. Screw that. I’m not coming out yet. Let him wait.
After about 45 minutes of this, he leaves. He comes back with horrible food about half an hour later and proceeds to eat it off the roof of the car, standing there shoving trash in his mouth and looking around for me. I almost thought he saw me once, but apparently not. I’m stealthy like that when I need to be.
He sits on the side wall of the carport for, no kidding, like an hour and a half. I wait it out.
Then he resorts to trickery, the bastard. He rifles around in a box in the car and pulls out my kryptonite. It’s those damn Pounce treats! He knows I’m powerless against the sound of that canister being shaken. I try to resist, but I just can’t. I run over to get one, knowing it’s probably a trap, and sure enough, he grabs me, and shoves me in the cage. That’s when he finally says it. “Kitty,” he says, “we’re moving.” He starts the car and off we go.
I scream and cry for the two hour drive, just to irritate him and let him know how pissed I am.
Then we get to this strange new place. It’s crap. Not nearly as much room, no basement, fewer windows to hang out in, and he got rid of the couch that I liked so much. For some reason. Still haven’t figured that out yet. Oh, yeah, and get this. He won’t let me outside now. Ever. Seriously? I haven’t been an indoor cat since I was, like, two! Come on.
I’m so over this whole relationship. I’m planning on just crawling up inside his big recliner chair and sulking for a few days. I might scratch some stuff up later. Then I’ll nose around a little bit and act like I’m okay with it all. Then I’ll probably piss on a few things just to remind him who’s in charge here. It’s not much, but it’s the best plan I’ve got until I plot my escape.
[Editor’s note: As of tonight, Kevin has yet to scratch anything up and has dutifully used the litter box for all his excretory needs. He seemed to calm down a bit after I unpacked a bunch of his toys and stuff. He’s currently lying on his back on the living room carpet, letting the air conditioning blow over his belly.]