Moving. With animals.

There's something about making an apartment into a home.  It's satisfying to know that even though every other apartment in the place has the same setup as yours, yours belongs to you.

But then... you move out.

And suddenly, everything that was yours is stripped away and put in boxes.

Boxen, if you will.

I will miss our dining room.  I loved all the windows in there!

And the china...  I love that china... even if we don't have enough chairs to accomodate that much china. And this isn't all of our china.  Anyone want to join us for a dinner party?

Our poor kitty cat.  She is a little nervous.  One one hand, she loves boxes.  Loves them with a passion.  This is like Disney World to her.

But on the other hand, she hates moving.  She hates it more than me.  When we moved to Atlanta, she rode in my sister's car and meowed the entire 3 hour drive.

And when we moved to Greenville?  Another 2 hours of straight meows.

My fear?  This drive is 7.5 hours.  Before stops.

Kitty valium?  Do they make that?  Is it called catnip?

Jigsaw and Max?  They're easy.  They'll curl up in the backseat of the car and nap the first 6 hours.  Then they'll want a potty break.  Then when we get off the highway in Virginia, they'll perk up as if to say, "Oh, we're here?  Where are we?  Is this our new home?"

And when we get out of the car, they'll act like they've lived there their entire lives.

But Ellie?  She's different.  She'll stay in her kennel for a few days, then she'll venture around the bedroom for the next month.  And one day, in 2011, I full expect her to peek her little head out of the bedroom for 10 seconds before running back in, curling up in the fetal position, and crying.

But then... after about 6 weeks from moving in, she'll make her way into the living room and, eventually, will become a normal cat again.

It just takes some adjustment.