I am moving, yet again.
I hate packing.
So far, my front hall closet and the majority of my bookcases are packed up in boxes. I wish this was all of my stuff, but alas, I have plenty more. I've already kicked a box full of books so many times that I thought my toe was broken. It wasn't.
As I blog (instead of pack - I'm developing an aversion of cardboard), I'm thinking of all the places I've lived. Or, more specifically, all the places my poor cat Hermes has lived.
He was born in Hamilton.
Moved to live with me in London (in two apartments).
There was a summer or two in Brampton, I'm sure.
Moved with me to Gatineau for a few months.
Back to London.
Back to Ottawa.
Back to Brampton.
Two apartments in Toronto.
And now, Brantford.
This isn't counting the numerous trips to our family cottage for weekends and summer vacations. Or the trips to stay with Aunt Heather and Uncle Mike while I've been away.
It's nice that he's very stoic about the whole situation. True, it's a royal pain in the ass to get him into his carrier, but once he's in there, he's pretty much resigned to his fate. He'll not make a sound as I haul his fat self down to my car, shove him in the back seat, and proceed to drive with him for several hours. Once, on the way to Ottawa, I forgot he was even there until he meowed to remind me!
If only Hamlet were the same ...
I hate packing.
So far, my front hall closet and the majority of my bookcases are packed up in boxes. I wish this was all of my stuff, but alas, I have plenty more. I've already kicked a box full of books so many times that I thought my toe was broken. It wasn't.
As I blog (instead of pack - I'm developing an aversion of cardboard), I'm thinking of all the places I've lived. Or, more specifically, all the places my poor cat Hermes has lived.
He was born in Hamilton.
Moved to live with me in London (in two apartments).
There was a summer or two in Brampton, I'm sure.
Moved with me to Gatineau for a few months.
Back to London.
Back to Ottawa.
Back to Brampton.
Two apartments in Toronto.
And now, Brantford.
This isn't counting the numerous trips to our family cottage for weekends and summer vacations. Or the trips to stay with Aunt Heather and Uncle Mike while I've been away.
It's nice that he's very stoic about the whole situation. True, it's a royal pain in the ass to get him into his carrier, but once he's in there, he's pretty much resigned to his fate. He'll not make a sound as I haul his fat self down to my car, shove him in the back seat, and proceed to drive with him for several hours. Once, on the way to Ottawa, I forgot he was even there until he meowed to remind me!
If only Hamlet were the same ...
