Today, I snatched my wonderful (yet capricious) cat from my sister's condo, packed up her food bowls and litterbox, and moved her twenty minutes away to her new home--our apartment! After a few weeks of convincing Justin that I need (not just want) Maggie to come live with us, he finally caved. While I don't feel he is 100% on board with the idea--he actually asked me how much longer I thought it was going to live--she is here to stay. Besides, after the move, I don't think she will ever get back into her cat carrier.
I arrived at Jessica's to a happy kitty. Maggie was lounging around the house, smelling the breeze coming in the deck door, sprawling out on top of a desk, and meowing at my heels for a good head-scratch. Twenty minutes into the visit, I was forcing her head into a cage while she was contracting every claw and digging them into my arms. She isn't one to just go into a small cell that she knows will carry her to some God-awful place. After several failed attempts and a loss of blood on Jessica's part, we dropped her head-first into the cat carrier, loaded her into the backseat of my car and began the journey.
From the horrendous sounds coming from her mouth, you would have thought I was taking her to some pet cemetery to bury her alive. I'm sure her low, screeching meows were part fear, part nerves, and part pain from that not-so-conventional entrance into the cat carrier. I glanced into the backseat at one point and swear I saw foam coming from her mouth which made me think she was having some kind of feline heart attack or stroke and that the trip was actually killing her. I then realized she was uncharacteristically drooling like crazy and panting like a dog. Once at my apartment, Jess and I took her inside, opened the carrier, wiped the drool from her chin, and let her out to explore her new home. I then realized that she had done something that she has never done in her almost eleven years of life...she pooped in the carrier. Maggie is the cleanest cat you will ever come across in your life, but I guess I literally scared the, well, crap out of her.
I fully expected her to find our bed, crawl underneath it, and stay there for a few days. Well, she did just that, but only stayed there for a few minutes:
She came out and continued to pant and sweat for a good half an hour before finally realizing that the torture was over and this was, in fact, her new home. Now, about five hours into the move, she's doing well. She ate her dinner, used the litterbox (thank goodness), and has made herself right at home.
I think she has now gone off to find a good spot to sleep away the awful day she had. And I think Justin will learn to love her. He will at least love that I have something new to point my camera at, and I will love the fact that I have someone to talk to (other than myself) while Justin is at work. Welcome home, Maggie!
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