A few days ago, my boyfriend and I semi-spontaneously packed our whole life into a 20 foot moving truck, loaded the cat and the golden retriever into the back of our vehicle, and high-tailed it from our nest in the Pacific Northwest towards the Atlantic ocean.
Given the paranormally strange conditions under which we found ourselves making the decision to move across the country, things went surprisingly smoothly on our voyage. We realized early on that the trailer the rental truck agency paid us to tow would not be worth the gas money, and therefore dumped it at the appropriate place. After that, it was a matter of chatting through the corn fields and keeping our eyes fixed far on the road in front of us. That, and sidestepping the temptation to check in on our social media feeds every few minutes or so, just to see what else 2020 has to offer before the year rolls over and finally, at last, mercifully, dies.
After the first day, neither one of the pets even required anti-anxiety medication; everybody settled in for the journey, and we all learned to find joy in the 15 minute “stretch your legs, pee, and play fetch” rest stop breaks.
At first, Gus was an incredibly–erm, let’s just say vocal–participant in the car. He insisted on having free roam of the vehicle on day one, eventually learned that under the driver’s feet is forbidden territory by day two, and by day three he sought “me time” in the back seat under the folds of my sweater and had fully regained his feline “aloofness.”