Breakinger news: if you’re a “pack the books two months before”-style planner and your partner is a “maybe they’ll hold the flight for us”-style procrastinator, MOVING SUCKS WAY MORE.
Because despite the fact that we had all summer to get ready—sell the furniture we weren’t bringing; clean out the mountain of trash in the basement so large and mold-infested that I think it may have been sentient when we finally dealt with it; pack anything—everything came down to the week we were leaving.
Which is why, the night before we were supposed to load ourselves, my two cats, and all our earthly possessions into an RV, I was stumbling through the house, operating at drunk-zombie levels of tired. As in I wasn’t stopping at “animated corpse,” I was stumbling through to “animated corpse who had eaten the flesh of someone who had just puked and rallied.” I was not only inhuman, I was inhuman and incapable of forming even the simplest of moaning sounds, let alone words and decisions.
But I couldn’t go to sleep, because as a planner, I was convinced that it wouldn’t get done if I didn’t stay up and get it done. Or, you know, supervise. Or just stumble around leaning on walls for support.
Actually, I’m still convinced of that.
But somehow, as it always does, most of it got mostly done, enough so that we were able to start loading all our earthly possessions—conveniently stowed in reusable totes, for easier stuffing-into-weird-RV-nooks-ability—into a 30-foot RV Friday morning.
Ahh, glamorous RV life!
And then the panic shitting began.
No, not me. At least not me this time. My cat, Captain Gentleman.
Zelda—the beauty queen pet I call princess partly as part of her name origin, but mostly because she literally prefers sitting on pillows to any other surface—seems like the likelier candidate for pet stress.*
Zelda holding her own in a moving house.
Captain, the massive bear-cat who lumbers around, is generally a little scuzzy (especially for a cat), but who makes up for it by literally hugging me around the neck whenever I pick him up, seems like a go-with-the-flow dude.
In cars—and apparently RVs—that flow is made exclusively of shit.
Panic shits make for REAL pleasant driving...
I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say there was an hour period of me running around the RV, as it barreled down the highway, wielding napkin after napkin as I chased the time-bomb that was his ass. Let’s also just say that the first panic shit was placed precisely on the welcome mat to his litter box, and he tried to aim the next for his food bowl until I physically pushed him out of its path. Let’s also just acknowledge I have no interest in sparing you the details, I went through HALF A BOTTLE OF 409 IN AN HOUR GODDAMMIT.
When he wasn’t shitting, he was doing that cat-mucus-drool thing that looks like he’s regurgitating Slimer from Ghostbusters and which apparently indicates nausea.
It’s really fun traveling with pets, y’all.
But several hours (and all that fucking 409) later, we pulled into our luxurious hotel for the night.
Plus side: they totally sell 409 there.
Our glamorous first night accommodations.
* It’s worth noting that Zelda, while sneakier and less constant-shitting about it, did take out her ‘holy shit this house you brought us to is MOVING’ feels on my fitted sheet, which is now sealed in a plastic bag, reeking of ammonia. Walmart also sells those, though.