My house is empty
The movers don't come until tomorrow, but my house is still emptier than it's been in 12 years.
I gave my cats to a coworker, today, because I can't take them with me to Abu Dhabi for a number of reasons. It's not an ideal situation. She already has four cats and a dog. But it was all I could do. Despite advertising far and wide, I couldn't find another home for them, and even if the shelters weren't already full, for me they were out of the question. There is still a possibility that a friend of a friend may take them when she moves into a new house in a month, and that would likely be a better situation.
My cats met my coworker's little dog almost immediately after I brought them into her house. The dog took it perfectly in stride with a curious sniff or two. Darby gave him a hiss. After that he was no longer interested. My coworker's cats have yet to be introduced to mine.
It's very strange to not have my little backup cat, Darby, sitting on the desk here as I write this. It's strange not to feel Webster's (the large primary cat) thick fur on my feet as he passes by on patrol.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't hear the two of them squalling for supper when I come home.
This will be the first night in 12 years that Webster doesn't go charging around the house for a few minutes before settling down, happy that I'm home.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I don't have cats in my cabinets.
This will be the first night in 12 years that Darby doesn't sit on my lap as I watch tv.
This will be the first night in 12 years that she doesn't rub her face on my toothbrush handle as I brush my teeth before bed, as if she were trying to brush hers as well.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't possibly be awakened by Webster horking up a hairball.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't have to watch where I step in the dark.
Tomorrow will be the first morning in 12 years that I don't get awakened at 6 am by Darby demanding breakfast with a tap of her paw on my face, followed by the computer mouse and the drink coaster on my desk getting knocked to the floor when tapping my face doesn't get me up.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I won't have to scoop out the litter box.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I'm not guaranteed to find cat hair in my cereal milk.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I don't share my cereal milk with somebody.
When I brush the cat hair from my clothing, tomorrow, it won't be replaced by more hair, newly shed.
No more purring in my ear.
No more cat bellies exposed on the floor on a lazy, comfortable day.
No more flag-like tails on parade.
No more clawed up bug screens on the windows.
The house is empty. And quiet. And lonely.
It's difficult.
I gave my cats to a coworker, today, because I can't take them with me to Abu Dhabi for a number of reasons. It's not an ideal situation. She already has four cats and a dog. But it was all I could do. Despite advertising far and wide, I couldn't find another home for them, and even if the shelters weren't already full, for me they were out of the question. There is still a possibility that a friend of a friend may take them when she moves into a new house in a month, and that would likely be a better situation.
My cats met my coworker's little dog almost immediately after I brought them into her house. The dog took it perfectly in stride with a curious sniff or two. Darby gave him a hiss. After that he was no longer interested. My coworker's cats have yet to be introduced to mine.
It's very strange to not have my little backup cat, Darby, sitting on the desk here as I write this. It's strange not to feel Webster's (the large primary cat) thick fur on my feet as he passes by on patrol.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't hear the two of them squalling for supper when I come home.
This will be the first night in 12 years that Webster doesn't go charging around the house for a few minutes before settling down, happy that I'm home.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I don't have cats in my cabinets.
This will be the first night in 12 years that Darby doesn't sit on my lap as I watch tv.
This will be the first night in 12 years that she doesn't rub her face on my toothbrush handle as I brush my teeth before bed, as if she were trying to brush hers as well.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't possibly be awakened by Webster horking up a hairball.
This will be the first night in 12 years that I won't have to watch where I step in the dark.
Tomorrow will be the first morning in 12 years that I don't get awakened at 6 am by Darby demanding breakfast with a tap of her paw on my face, followed by the computer mouse and the drink coaster on my desk getting knocked to the floor when tapping my face doesn't get me up.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I won't have to scoop out the litter box.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I'm not guaranteed to find cat hair in my cereal milk.
Tomorrow will be the first day in 12 years that I don't share my cereal milk with somebody.
When I brush the cat hair from my clothing, tomorrow, it won't be replaced by more hair, newly shed.
No more purring in my ear.
No more cat bellies exposed on the floor on a lazy, comfortable day.
No more flag-like tails on parade.
No more clawed up bug screens on the windows.
The house is empty. And quiet. And lonely.
It's difficult.