On LeavingAmerica - Part 44

The End Is Here

 Saying goodbye to Seattle:Well, it’s been okay here. There was culture enough: operas—saw a dozen with my wife, some great comedians: Harvey Korman & Tim Conway, Lewis Black—Chris Rock. There were symphonies, great restaurants and lots of writers . . . artists (big on glass here). Lots of rain. We will be trading that for snow—which needs to be shoveled. Ummm . . . . The weather isn’t really all that bad here, rarely freezes. Below zero will require getting used to—and so many other things. The aircraft’s mighty engines drone some thirty thousand feet above the earth—six hundred miles and hour . . . the hush of night. It’s late. Some passengers watch airplane movies, others sleep. Wife in the seat beside me. Cats between our feet. In ten more hours we’ll land in Paris, then change planes and travel on to Stockholm, then a two hour train ride and Part 2 of this adventure will begin. By the time you read this we’ll be far away.

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“Did you read Willie’s blog? ‘Tri Polar.’ Now he thinks he’s some kind of white bear. I told you he was losing it! This is not good. And I heard we’re going to stay a few days in Boots’ house. Wonderful. You stay as far away from him as possible, Amber. I’ll do the best I can to protect you, but stay in your room. He’s nothing but trouble. Remember what he did to Morris? I just hope I don’t get fleas again.

“And when we leave his house it’s back into those tiny cages you can barely turn around. Who knows how long we’ll be caged up inside the silver bird. I figure our odds of survival are about 50%. And if we do make it we’ll probably have post traumatic stress. Our lives will never be the same.”
“Oh Bucks, you’re such a drama queen. We’ll be okay. They’ll probably give us tranquilizers.”
“They should give us psychedelics. That would make the trip more interesting. We’d be double tripping. Get it? Double—”
“Got it.”
“Good.” I give my tail a casual flip, then look into her starry eyes. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” I could have been another Bogart. “It’s been good,” I tell her.
“What has?”
Amber doesn’t listen to the classic movie channel. “Us.” I mean like, me and you . . . together—hanging out, chasing around, and having lunch. I mean . . . I love you, Amber. I just want you to know . . . in case I don’t make it.”
“Well, I love you back Bucks. Now will you get over it! We’re going to be okay. We’ll blog again, and I already know some Swedish.”
“Right. We’ll see. This blog could be our last.”
“It won’t,” she says.
Sometimes she’s right. But this time . . . I don’t know.

 

Now he’s got me worried!

On Leaving America - Part 43

Sometimes it hits me like a brick wall and becomes more frequent as departure comes more near, matter of days now—and then hours. I don’t think this is my last blog. I bought an inexpensive laptop that seems to be working. Hopefully I will not be off line more than a day or two.

I think I’ve developed a new symptom for the DSM: Tri-polar. My mind and moods flip around like a gerbil on crack—from excited, to terrified, to sad. These damned goodbyes. The neighbors will be throwing a party for us. I am not in love with the idea. I have had enough goodbyes. They are not fun, but they’re good neighbors, ones that we could count on—trust to feed the cats when we were gone, and help when help was needed . . . barbeques and dinners, minor conversations at the mail box. I suppose it’s just polite to say goodbye. They will be missed. I hope we’ll be as lucky with our neighbors on the other side.
I’m feeling sorry for the cats. It seems so cruel to keep them caged for such a long time, not much better for us humans cramped up in those airplane seats, and then from Stockholm there’s a two hour drive to our new home where we will wait for car and all our stuff to get to Sweden. When it does the game starts over—one more time.
Caramba! I suspect it’s going to be about a year from now before we know a day or two of peace, where there is nothing that must be done. Or do days like that ever happen? I can’t remember.

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It’s not been easy for us; I can tell you that. Today for instance. These five guys came barging in and started taking stuff. I mean like they took everything. There’s nothing left! The color box is still blabbing away and Boots’ servant brought over a couple chairs for our bipods to sit on. We’ve been left a litter box, but nothing to climb on.

Willie’s losing it. He’s totally stressed out. I’m so glad I’m not human. I’ve been trying to stay out of the way, demanding the occasional snack when he sits down, which isn’t often. It’s hard to get snacks when they’re up and doing something, and they’re always doing something these last months.
Amber’s been doing her cat yoga to stay calm, but I’m not into that. I just relax, I mean I totally let go, all muscles perfectly at rest . . . no stress. Kind of a Zen thing—beyond words.

To make it worse I’ve overheard some talk of smuggling us into a hotel . . . Like common criminals! I can’t believe that this is happening.
I need to relax.

Ah, yes. This is more like it—easy to do when you know how, and I’m a master of the art. Amber is pretty good at it, but she can’t stop thinking . . . even when she sleeps. She snores sometimes, and has dreams about shoes, a hangover from her past life as a human. It might not be possible for females to stop thinking, but for me it’s easy.

On Leaving American - Part 42

19 February 2019   Year of the water snake, I think.

Twelve days to go. I am totally freaking out. Time is passing by faster than greyhounds, and there is still so much to do. We must be out of the house on the fourth of March. Before that we will be living in empty place for two days—with the cats and a mattress and TV that will be picked up on the final day. Or we could go somewhere. A neighbor has offered us use of his guest bedroom and we might make use of that . . . or not. 

The neighbor has this cat that can go in and out of his house through a small cat door. Boots is a very bad cat and last week he attract Morris who. Morris is an indoor cat and found a way to sneak out of his house. Boots tore him up pretty bad. Boots kills birds, including lots of humming birds. He is not beloved in the neighborhood. Six-hundred dollar vet bill to repair poor Morris. 

Even if we kept our cats locked in the bedroom . . . what if one got out . . . or in. They will need water, food and a sand box. Could we even get into a hotel with 2 cats? I should put that on our list: Hotel that takes cats. Two days in Motel 6? With cats. 

The cats know something‘s going on. Thank God they can’t imagine what is coming up. A neighbor will take us to the airport with so much luggage we need Sherpa’s. Lou and I will both be carrying one cat in a cage with a sling that goes over one's shoulder . . . this and two LARGE suitcases each. Then thirty hours of flight. I have images of miss migrations, photos of lines of people escaping some horrible fate with all there belonging on the backs or in a cart . . . everything they own. 

I don’t care if it kills me. I just want it to be over. I am too damn old to be doing this. I’ve begun to feel old for the first time. There was a time when I became old, probably mid-fifties. I remember overhearing someone saying to another, “He’s that old guy, over there.” I suddenly saw them as they saw me, older by a couple decades. I was suddenly aware that others thought of me as old. But I did not feel old.

I’m feeling old these last few days. I’m feeling tired, and Lou is too. We’ve been packing again. The things you really want to have available as long as possible. We’re packing our suitcases. What are the most important things? What will go in the limited space of carry on? What are the family jewels? Bucky is sitting on the table just behind me, looking at this monitor. It’s lucky he can’t read. “Not knowing is the strength of man and beast.” Who said that? 

Bucky wants a snack, of course. I give him one and satisfied, he saunters off. Sometimes I think it’s more he wants to make me do something than he wants the snack.

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I I really must protest Buck's last blog.

First the rug thing:
I just happened to be sitting on a carpet sample when the rug-flipper was here.
Lou saw how it matched my coat which she, of course, thinks is beautiful. So she chose that sample for the house. It's true I did pounce on Bucks yesterday. He didn't see me coming! I'm going to get him again today!

As for the cage, female cats care more about their luggage. What I got is what I deserve. If he didn't eat so many cat snacks he would have more room in his!

Bucks had the purple flowers delivered to me for Valentines Day. He has his moments. I just hope Willie doesn't freak out when he gets the bill.

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Buckminster & Amber – 27

Posted on February 15, 2013 by bldodson

I can’t believe this! Amber got another cage! It probably cost three times as much as mine! It’s red . . . and quilted ! Really. But I’m not surprised. It always goes this way. She’s such a flirt. You won’t believe this: Yesterday the houseman—his name’s Willie—gave her a whole smoked oyster. And what did I get? A cheap, dry over-the-counter cat snack.

And there’s the thing with this new carpet. Have you noticed how well it matches her coat? You can bet she had a heavy paw in its selection—makes a perfect camouflage background that helps her hide from me. There’s no way she can really hide from me, but sometimes I don’t see her coming. She’ll be lucky if one of the humans doesn’t step on her. I don’t really care about the carpet cause were leaving anyway. And that red cage is way too effeminate for a hip kat like me.

I just wanted you to know what’s going on.
Bucks