My poor cat.
Our neighborhood is having a yard sale tomorrow. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been dragging old crap out of the basement, cleaning whatever’s particularly dirty, testing electronic bits to see if they still work, sorting and affixing price stickers, and heaping it up in the living room.
It is, from his perspective, a great upheaval. Like most cats, he does not like sweeping changes to his routine or his environment. In the past, when things got moved around to this degree, it heralded a move to an entirely new house. So he’s understandably a bit concerned about it. He follows me into the basement and inspects the newly empty spaces, then follows me back upstairs to examine the relocated stuff. He meows anxiously at me, and I try to reassure him that we’re not moving again. The he goes to hide on our bed, as far away from the activity as he can possibly get in the house.
Me, I’m tickled to death about it. One of my industrious neighbors organized the event; all I have to do is shove things out. I shovelled out the toys that haven’t been played with in eight years, dragged out some furniture and appliances (if we were going to use that chair that’s been down there since we bought the house, I reasoned, we wouldn’t have bought a new one last year), and now I’m eyeballing the old stack of VHS tapes—we don’t even have a VHS player any more.
It’s been raining all morning; I have informed God that it must not rain tomorrow. I’ve explained the situation; I really, really want to get all this crap out of my house. Whatever’s left after the yard sale is over is not coming back in, it’s going straight into the van and getting carted to the veteran-run thrift store across town.
And in the meantime, I’ve been giving Phurball gooshy food for dinner every night to make up for the anxiety.