The Incredible Heaviness of Moving

This Better Be a Good Reason

Our family has been moving our home for over a week now; we're starting to look like soldiers who've been in the trenches for months: forlorn, depressed, ambivalent. Dragging, without appetite, we arrive to pick up another load even though we rented a truck over the weekend for the big stuff.

Even though the new place -- a geodesic dome completed in the early 80's -- is like a vacation house: spacious, spectacular views, freshly painted, new carpet (which we hate: carpet, not new), we struggle to adjust: cardboard boxes -- cajas en español -- line walkways and mark "the path."

Our two cats have acclimated, in less than two days, to the new place having sufficiently explored and smelled everything. And, of course, sharpened their claws on familiar furniture. The old one, Kalu, whom we affectionately call "The Old Bag" is protesting the relocation by urinating on my clothes that she finds on the floor: the bitter smell tips me off. Litter box? Not gonna use it, she seems to be telling us. Yes, I've gotten the message: don't leave any clothes on the floor. Thank you.

Normally, I would have taken pictures of the process and the new place; I have neither the motivation nor the interest: I am, I fear, fully invested in a struggle to breathe less shallowly. Anxiety grips me, usually, first thing in the morning. Yes, I've switched to decaffeinated coffee.

All of these accommodations to just cope with situation makes me feel sufficiently wimpy and...so it goes. Some folks tell me I'm doing great because I'm still breathing. The hero/heroine in this situation is my wife, Patty: she plods through the work without relish or complaining. A dedicated realist, she provides a valiant model for us all.

How Do I Write a Note to the Birds?

A Move Makes Me Wonder About the Care of My Birds

For almost six years at our current house, I have cultivated a loyal following of winged friends: chestnut-backed chickadees, Anna's hummingbirds, house finches, goldfinches, scrub jays, stellar jays, nuthatches, woodpeckers, tufted titmouses.  There are more, I'm sure. 

Over the next couple of weeks, we will be moving to a new house on a ridge surrounded by views and orchards.  My ethical and moral dilemma is that I don't know how to write a note to my feathered friends to tell them not to worry -- I've found good tenants who will continue to fill the feeders. 

I'd like, also, to tell them that they can come visit just a short distance -- less than 2 miles -- away.  Patty had an idea to leave them a Google map with the location of the new house; I didn't reject it: they are, I'm sure, smarter than we give them credit for.  (See Irene Pepperburg's book Alex and Me about her thirty years' of research with a parrot.)

These are my friends; they owe me nothing but to fly, eat, sing and live.  I have come to know them intimately and...I will miss them.  Is that OK?  Even though I have a bobcat and a kite (a raptor!) at the new house, I'll miss these guys.  And, I'll work to cultivate another following of flying animals who provide just a bit of validation to a fellow being: me.

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Should I Let the Cat Drink Out of the Water Pik

Strange Relationship Provides Excessive Liberties?

I love my animals, all of them, including the "old bag," a part Siamese who is my "mouth with fur" and is rarely happy, especially when other pet companions are around.  That is my curse, my weakness; anything that any of them do would be....OK.  (Mind you, the litter box is in my office and I tolerate that while I'm on the phone; have you ever taken in the odiferous vapors of a cat's leavings?  It's exquisitely stinky.)

So, lately, Lily -- a calico who's about seven years old but still a kitten -- comes into the bathroom while the Sonicare is having its way on my teeth (this has only allayed gum surgery which I've been putting off for economic reasons): she tells me, subliminally, that she needs some water. 

Well, actually she puts her head in the reservoir of my Water Pik machine (it gets used a couple of times a week; I'm not going to comply with all the dentist's orders, you know) and gives me a look, like, "hey, where's the water?"  I fill up the one pint, plastic reservoir.  She drinks.  She doesn't thank me; she's a teenager, you know.  A look in the mirror, another drink and, then, she's off the counter. 

Patty, who might be present during these interactions, cautions me: even though she doesn't use the Water Pik, she thinks Lily's habits could be damaging to me: "you know, she licks her butt with that tongue."  I raise my eyebrows: this is a not too friendly fact: that tongue has been places where I wouldn't go. 

Well, I have executed some emergency procedures on my little feline friend that involved the end of a spoon, some newspaper and some Vaseline -- not necessarily in that order.  So, I am familiar with the reality of Lily's non-front-end and some of the potential risks.  I shrug my shoulders; I love her too much to worry about that crap, literally. 

I, sort of, see my intent to use the unit without bleaching it as a sign of affection and biological trust: I know there are enzymes in Lily's mouth that will, hopefully, kill any butt-circling bacteria and...I don't care: I consciously take the risk.  Out of love.  Love, that dirty little four letter word.

Limits?  Yes, I think I have limits: if she starts licking my Sonicare, I'm going to...have a talk with her.  She's a genius you know.