Moving House is a stressful time for all involved. I hate the running around, the organising, and most of all, the packing up and cleaning. This time, things were even more stressful because we were moving to a brand spanking new house, no previous occupants, the house we had watched "grow" from the slab up. Although owning something *brand new* was a novelty, it also meant such things as the utilities had to be organised. The gas and electricity people were reasonable, but the telecommunications sods took great pleasure in telling us it would take at least 10 days for some overqualified git to flip a switch at an exchange somewhere, which was not good news for the two 'net addicted occupants of said house. (10 days without rec.pets.cats.anecdotes is enough to give me the DT’s) I also had the dubious pleasure of the knowing that I was the first to scratch the otherwise pristine walls when moving a rather recalcitrant fridge through doorways that shrank at the sight of large, heavy and awkward furniture.

Due to the tiny, nay, minuscule, nature of the previous flat, we did not have a lot of furniture, and those bare essentials which seemed to overwhelm the flat are now sparsely spread out over the three bedroom house. The crates and boxes that otherwise served quite well as coffee tables and TV stands at the flat looked a bit out of place, so as well as attempting to move every single piece of junk I have ever owned, dealing with callous telecommunication agents, scrubbing things that were best left evolving the civilisation of the 4th millennium and otherwise running around like a mad chook, I was also left to garner the "missing" furniture. The blood pressure of the last few days has reached record heights, the pressure being enough to power a small hydroelectric scheme at times. Of course, having to cough up for the unexpected delights that the estate agent thoughtfully forgets inform me of, such as rates, on the first day one moves in would probably allow the throbbing in my head power to a small nation if harnessed correctly. Needless to say, the little stash of money I had put away with the misguided notion of buying some new furniture for the house is now funding the ongoing Council "discussion" over what to name a suburb that been known to the locals as "Shellharbour" since time immemorial. So much for furniture shopping, and the house was still echoing. All I can say is "thank God for the Salvos" – cliched I know, but they really do have some great stuff, that with a bit of spit'n'polish will look almost as good as new. In the mean time, their furniture is still perfectly usable and adds a certain unique quality to the domestile.

So far, I haven't mentioned what this has done to my poor Shmoggleberry. At about seven, he doesn't really deserve to be picked up in the dead of night, stuffed unceremoniously into a plastic bag with paper lining by two stressed out, cranky and tired individuals, and doesn't really need the 30 minute drive in my clapped out jalopy, which makes the noise like pit-demon to an unsuspecting and somewhat innocent critter. The poor beastie. He had watched forlornly as most of "his" playthings had been moved out of "his" territory, and no doubt he could smell the friction between Joel and I for the whole day. "For God sake’s, get out of my way, this is bloody heavy!" "Who the hell let the cat escape?" "Watch out for the tomato sauc…. Oh, never mind" "[snort] where’s the [snuffle] anti [sneeze] histamines? Why the [atchoo] hell did you [snort] pack the [sniff] tissues?". The whole process was not a pleasant one, and although I must commend Shmoggleberry for not peeing for almost the entire 30 minute drive, I just wished he could have held his bladder for a few metres to the laundry of the new place. At least he didn't try to escape in the car, or try to scratch Joel’s eyes out while I was driving.

I'm glad I'm not a cat, you know. It embarrassing enough to wet one’s clothing in public, but at least we humans can just chuck the offending attire in the washing machine and it comes back as good as new. The poor cat has to clean his coat, slowly, all by himself, without the help of enzymes or "pleasant smell of lemons". Maybe cats can turn their taste buds off, and for they're sake, I hope they can. Although I have often thought that in my next life I would like to come back as a well-loved cat, I would not like to spend the sort of night Shmoggleberry did that first night. Quivering in fear, jammed behind the washing machine, soaked to the skin in my own mess, on cold tiles in the dead of night in strange and unfriendly place. No, I think I'll stick to cat-slave if I get to have another go. At about 4am, he started to howl – not the howl of a hungry cat, or a scared cat, or even a I’m-going-to-slash-your-throat-I’m-so-pissed-at-you cat, but the dejected howl of a sad, lonely, forlorn and despondent cat, the cries of anguish from a cat that has been ripped from his home and placed in a foreign and threatening environment without as much as a by-your- leave, the woeful moaning of a cat that has been callously abandoned by everything and everyone that it has ever cared about. It just about broke my heart.

The next morning, after being blinded by the sunlight (what’s that?) streaming through the curtain-less windows, I let him out. He had, at least, used the litter box during the night and the crunchie bowl looked like it had had that cute little snout vacuuming up its contents at some point in time. I coaxed my poor critter out from behind the washing machine, and was amazed to see him climb up the wall to turn around. I was so pleased to have him out and "talking" to me, I ignored those otherwise charming little foot prints on my *brand new* walls – at least they are behind something large and opaque. Although he was quite good about coming out when I called to him while in the room, if I left, he would go straight back between the wall and the washer.

"Silly cat", I thought, "the traditional place for cats is under the bed". I left the laundry door open all day, although I really didn't expect him to come out straight away. I have always maintained that a cat is really half pig, and half chicken, and today was the turn for the chicken’s half to take possession of the cat body. I went to bed that night, with the Shmoggleberry still "safely" squished in his "safe place".

Although it was somewhat re-assuring to have a purring wet thing touch my cheek in the early am, Shmoggleberry could have been slightly more considerate of the time when informing me that the pig had now taken over from the chicken in his fine furry little body. Breakfast that morning was an interesting combination of meeting my neighbours through the kitchen window (also not curtained) while still looking like I'd just got out of bed (which, not coincidentally, is what I always look like when I have just got out of bed), yelling "shut up – I'll get it" at the cat while madly searching through all the mostly empty cupboards. Only later did it slowly dawn upon me that not only had the neighbours seen me looking like I'd just risen from the grave, but they may have also seen what I had worn to bed the previous night, or, to put it more obviously, what I *hadn't* worn to bed. Obviously nice neighbours, though, because when they said "hello" to me today (day 4) they didn't snicker, and even made eye contact with me without shuddering.

Shmoggleberry has since installed himself under the bed, like a normal (?) self respecting cat, and pretends to be terribly brave whenever I'm around. The interminable runs between flat and house continue, and we cheered today when the first load of garbage was dutifully picked up at the front of the house (which is what rates go towards, I guess). I'm still thrilled with my "estate", and will keep everyone updated with the way Shmoggleberry comes to terms with his new turf. In the next story, Shmoggleberry gets McNuggets for breakfast.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
May 19, 1999