Moving Misgivings.

I would like to preface this with an apology, for it is a day late. It's not normal for me to eat that much cat mint, and I woke up with a bit of a spinner. Once you read the article, I'm sure you'll forgive the incident.

As some of my more regular readers, especially those with excellent memories, might recall, my self-proclaimed owner and her family have been attempting to sell their house. This isn't a particularly pleasing thought to me, as I hate the idea of being upheaved and replanted in an unfamiliar place. I know, things could be better, but they could also be worse. That happens sometimes, things getting worse, and I'm by no means a fan of it. So, imagine my dismay when I found they have indeed sold the house. Well, when I say sold I mean they've had an acceptable offer. Nevertheless, it's opened up a can of worms that we of the feline purrsuasion would rather leave tightly sealed for dropping from high windows onto unsuspecting d*gs below.

I guess what I most dislike is the boxing of things. All those boxes and papers and chaos and mayhem. Well, I'm not actually opposed to the mayhem bit, but you get the picture. I mean, what happens if in all the fuss, I get picked up, wrapped up, and boxed up only to be discovered dead three years later in a parcel labelled Moo-moos and tartan golf hats. Face it, the level of human competence suggests the possibility of feline mislabeling, and I'm not too pleased with the prospect. Who would ever open a box marked Moo-moos and tartan golf hats? I suppose Arnold Palmer might be curious, or purrhaps someone not quite as famous who appreciates moo-moos or golf-hats. Still, the likelihood of that box being opened anytime before 2010 isn't encouraging.

So what if I don't get mislabeled? What then? I get crated and unceremoniously placed into room, devoid of comfy chairs, beds, chaise lounges, or even the merest ottoman upon which a cat may rest his weary, transport-worn paws. Not a thing. Just me, a water dish, a temporary litter tray, four walls, possibly five if it's one of those strange houses with the funny shaped rooms, and a hard floor upon which to pace. The only plus side I see is that the bare walls, especially if there are five of them, will amplify and echo my yelping demands for release.

I guess when all is said and done, I'm simply not at all pleased with the situation. I'm sure a nice country setting will be all good and fine, but why can't it all be ready for me? I'm not asking much. It could be done. Just go out and buy all identical things to those which currently reside in my favorite room, shut me in there until the corresponding room is appropriately decorated (a lot of kibble and a few people peeling grapes and fanning me to keep me calm couldn't hurt), and when it's finished, transport me by teleporter into the new room. Then, once the rest of the house is finished, all they'd have to do is open the door. Not too much to ask at all. Very reasonable to my mind, in fact.

It just goes to show that humans are completely impractical. If they want to move, they jam things in boxes and threaten to lose their feline companions in cartons of obsolete skin covering. If it were left to feline planning, things would be much easier.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)