Do you know how much stuff fits into a Subaru wagon? I was a bit optimistic about the whole thing. Turns out, hardly anything will be making the trek to the midwest with us (side note, turns out I have really strange priorities: large painting of a giant squid must go, but my kitchenaid goes blithely into storage. We are taking books, clothes, and lots and lots of strange artwork). I don't know what is going to happen when we get there. I have a lot of anxiety about it, actually, because my husband and I are rather comitted to buying things second hand (because fair trade is expensive, plus we are taking vows of simplicty) and in our new neighborhood bed bugs is a problem. So . . . this should be an adventure. But this is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to stake a claim on this little corner of the internet and say goodbye to Huckleberry, the world's grumpiest and belligerent and strangely soulful cat:
Enjoy your new home, your farm in the country. May the mice be plentiful and the barn nice and dry.
You were our first muse, our practice baby, our love kitten, our cantankerous flatmate. We will never forget you.
You were a really good kitty.
[now excuse me whilst I go cry my eyes out].