Because She’s a Pussy

The cat’s been giving me the stink eye this morning.

I think she knows.

It couldn’t be the me-sized stack of packed boxes standing ominously in the corner of the bedroom. Or the fact that she and Turbo recently had two sets of shots. Or even the unusual number of guests we’ve had over to the house these past few weeks. No. Nermal knows something’s amiss because I’ve been moving our precious stuff around.

And she absolutely hates that.

She grew quite upset with me yesterday when I infringed on her territory under the bed. I needed to pack some shoes. She took my actions as some sort of personal betrayal. She glared at me, and refused to move even when I pushed one of the storage boxes right next to her. I’m standing my ground, her shiny eyes seemed to say. You just try to pry me out from under this bed, and see what happens.

I know that by this afternoon, her complaints will increase. As I begin to take pictures down, she will alternately mewl and hiss at me, as if to ask, “Why? Why are you doing this again? Why, oh why, can’t we stay in one place? Don’t you know how much I hate change?”

I do know how much she despises these all-too-frequent cross-country trips and relocations. I know because she undergoes a distinct personality change every time we move. When we relocated from Texas to South Dakota, she reverted to the full-fledged paranoia she displayed as a kitten. For months, she sought out every possible hiding place in the house. Last year, when we stayed in Boise with my mother, the stress of living around dogs must have been too much for her. She became uber-territorial, and took her angst out on Turbo. Nermal incessantly bullied the older cat, and wouldn’t even allow her to go in the litter box.

I did everything I could to help Nermal calm down. I even purchased some expensive kitty pheromones designed to relieve stress. Nothing worked.

I love my baby cat dearly. But part of me wonders if she would be better off with a non-military family…