2010-09-27

The End of the Tunnel.

Well, we're kind of moved in.

I say "kind of" because we're sleeping there now, and the cats are there (much to their considerable consternation). But the rest of our furniture is still at the apartment, along with the boxes containing the rest of our lives. We have our toothbrushes, the litterbox, and basically what amounts to two or three changes of clothes. The movers get the rest of it tomorrow, we go back and clean up the old place on Wednesday, and that's the end of it. We are nearing the end of this most unpleasant tunnel.

But, yeah, the cats. They were - how you say? - MOST DISPLEASED with us for a good 36 hours. They spent much of this past Saturday like any other day: snoozing, bathing, listlessly batting wadded pieces of packing tape across the increasingly box-congested floor. And then we did a terrible thing to them.

We figured that we could perhaps lure them into their carriers with some nice stinky wet food. They heard the can being opened, and all was a big love-fest, until we put their bowls in their carriers.
Foot Foot, being something of a dim bulb, fell for it. When we closed the door behind her, she just kept on eating. Mephisto, having spent a lot more time on the streets, knew something was UP. He kept walking over to their food mat, looking up at us as if to say, "WTF, dudes?" And we kept cooing, "Go into your little house, 'phisto....c'mon...."

By this point, Foot Foot realized what had happened, and began frantically clawing at the door of her carrier. This only added to Mephisto's overall doubtfulness, and when we tried to grab him, he FLIPPED OUT. As we did months ago when we brought him to the vet for the first time, we had to chase him until we completely broke him down. He crouched in his carrier shaking with a combination of fear and utter outrage the entire ride to Malden, while Foot Foot mewled pitifully from hers.

They stayed under the bed, sulking, for the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday.

Foot Foot emerged first, managing to keep it together long enough to find the litterbox before scurrying right back under the bed at the first unfamiliar noise. Mephisto just glowered, scooting away from his once-cherished chin scratches, and showing not even the slightest interest in his stuffed Day-Glo dinosaur, the one he'd been making sweet. sweet love to not 36 hours before. He was pissed. I was heartbroken. We'd worked so long and so diligently to turn him from the dirty skittish feral that came in to the little loverboy he'd been up until Saturday afternoon. I was inconsolable, convinced that all our work was for naught, and Mephisto would spend the rest of his days under our bed. "I just want my LOVERBOY BACK," I wailed to the houseboy as we walked back to the house from Walgreen's last night, having purchased a box of dishwasher pellets (HOLY CRAP I HAVE A DISHWASHER NOW).

"It's only been 24 hours..."
"NO! Ohhh, he's SO MAD at me. I've BETRAYED HIM..."
"..."

Late last night, we awoke to the familiar sound of Foot Foot and Mephisto engaging in their nightly game of "Chase me! Chase me! Chase me!" He was back under the bed this morning, but gave my proferred hand a nuzzle and let me scratch under his chin. I left him purring as I went to work.

lisamcc at 2:58 p.m.

previous | next