I’m picking up the cats today.
I’m thrilled because I’m creepily obsessed with those little monsters, but I’m also sort of moved because they are the last part of my life to come back together. The last time I walked through my front door to be warmly greeted by Shakespeare and Eliot I was working at my old job, living in my old apartment, leading my old life. The two little cats were an unfortunate casualty to the vertigo that swept me up over the last several months; but I’ve regained my balance and perhaps have a solid enough foundation to put the books back on the shelves, restand the picture frames and carefully pick up the pieces of shattered coffee mugs from the kitchen floor.
The cats coming home just means that its really home, that I’m really here, that its real. I think they’ll like the new place as much as I do – the big, busy-street-facing windows that throw light (both real and manufactured) all over, radiator-warm places to sleep, and plenty of stuff to mess with. In these short months I’ve learned what its like to be a non-cat owner and my house has become un-cat proofed. A tube of chap stick sits harmlessly on the coffee table, plastic bags gather quietly near the kitchen trashcan, my scarves hang unsuspectingly from my coat rack.
Things will change when the cats come home, but mostly they’ll just go back to the way they should be.