We are moving.

We finally brought the cats to the new house.  Maya, our fifteen year old, skinny, black kitty, the one we were most worried about, took the move easiest.  She wandered around a bit, found a soft spot to lay and relaxed.  Stanley, who is brave, brash and only four years old, is a mess. She yowled like it was the end of the world and found a tiny corner where she could hide.

It’s been a few days now and they are slowly acclimating, but super affectionate.  We have set up our living room in the furnished basement of the new house and are keeping the cats downstairs while we continue to settle in, move and unpack. At first, they were both perfectly happy to just stay in their space and try to figure out this new home, but Stanley now has other plans. She has started sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for the door to open.  She hasn’t tried to escape into the rest of the house, but she knows there is more to this new home… and she hates closed doors.

Maya on the other paw, has found a chair to make her own and she is hard to pry out of it once she is settled.  It’s already acquiring a smattering of black fur.

“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.”

― Jean Cocteau