A Farmhouse and a One-Eyed Cat

We signed the papers on our farmhouse today.  All one hundred billion of them.  And after all the waiting and the praying and the waiting and the praying, and then the waiting and the hoping and the praying, it felt really good to walk out of that office and have it settled once and for all.

I, of course, am thrilled.  My husband is thrilled.  Our children are thrilled.  Admittedly, the baby has no clue what is going on, but he does seem thrilled to have new cupboards to open and close and new staircases by which to terrify his Mama as he attempts to climb.

However, there is at least one family member (as I discovered this evening), who is blatantly un-thrilled about our beautiful new farmhouse.


This is Zeke, our one-eyed cat:

Adorable, ain't he?  And not only adorable, but also very very super content to spend the rest of his life within the confines of our current four walls.

So, brilliant me decided to pack Zeke up tonight (along with our two littlest guys and a load of stuff) so he could "get acquainted" with our new home.  Mr. C, four years old, was delighted at the thought of showing Zeke our farmhouse, and was all grins and giggles.  But Zeke proved to be a giant one-eyed sissy and pitifully meowed the  e n t i r e   w a y   t h e r e.

Now this could have been really annoying.  It could even have driven me crazy, but one-year-old Baby K thought it was entertainment at its finest.  Utilizing all his sweet baby innocence and charm, along with some pretty impressive linguistic skill, he began to imitate Zeke's sissy-cat crying for nearly the entire twenty-five minute drive.

"Meeeoooooooowwww!  Meeeeoooooooowwwww!"

"Mao!  Kitty!  Mao!"

"Meeeeeeeooooooooowwwwwww!   Meeeeeeooooooooowwwwwww!"

"Mao!  Mao!" 

"Meeeeeeeooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww!

"Mao!  Mao!  Kitty!  Mao!"

Lovely. 

By the time I released Zeke into the kitchen, I figured he would be itching to run away from his crate.  He was free and had a whole house to explore!  Instead, he came out, hunkered down, circled the crate and then climbed back in, burying his head in the back corner.  I extracted him once more and this time closed the crate door behind him.  Having no immediate options for head burial, Zeke slinked (miserably) down the back hallway and crept up the stairs, seeking a refuge from this new unfamiliar abyss.  When he found a closet at the top of the stairs, he glued his quivering mass of black-and-white fur to the deepest and darkest corner of that closet that he could find. 

And there he stayed.  

Now I did pry him out when it was time to leave.  I tried to carry him around the house, pointing out its many cat-friendly features, like big windows, a fantastic view of the yard, and giant windowsills on which to perch.  He was unimpressed.  Giving up, I shoved him into his crate, carried him to the van, and buckled him in, to which he barely protested.  In fact, the ride home was much quieter than the previous trip, punctuated only by the occasional "Meeeeeooooooooowwww" "Mao!".

Four-year-old Mr. C, though, could not understand why Zeke was making such a fuss about going to the new house.

"Why is he crying?  Doesn't he know that we're moving?"

"No, buddy.  He doesn't understand."

"Well...that's because cats don't have good brains...and they NEVER LISTEN!!!"

Sleep sweetly, Kitty Cat.  Soon you won't know what hit you.

Hmmm.  Pretty spot-on for a four-year-old.  And what I forgot to mention is that Zeke is only one of four cats in our family, and judging by his opinion of our new house, we're going to have a good bit of fun convincing them that this move is for the better.

Before bed tonight, Mr. C was asked if Zeke liked the new house.

"All Zeke saw," said Mr. C, "was the inside of the closet!"

If only he had a better brain, maybe he would listen when we told him we were moving.