Unrest

Our usually peaceful household has been well, a lot less peaceful over the last few weeks.  The unrest is separate from the stress of moving and unpacking (which is largely over), as well as  the seemingly small yet strangely exhausting tasks of buying silverware, lightbulbs, groceries, car insurance, etc, all in a new place.  It also has nothing to do with the potential for adjustment that the Nanny and I might have anticipated from transitioning from living in the same building in separate apartments to now living in the same apartment, in bedrooms connected by a Jill-and-Jill bathroom (I figure it's only a Jack-and-Jill if there's a Jack involved.).  No, this unrest, this disruption to the calm, this excitement, if you will, comes from one creature, and one creature only.  Tucker.

Photoshop skillz by Nanny

Tucker, as it turns out, is having a midlife crisis.

I can think of no other explanation.  Though he seems a bit young for such a major life event (he's four and a half), I can no more deny his emotional turmoil than I could deny the truth of global warming (which, depending on your political leanings might not be all that demonstrative of a comparison, but I digress).

He meows at all hours of the night, his dreams apparently disrupted by his own emotional duress.  My bleary explanations to him that there is food in his bowl and that his litter boxes are clean are met with stony glares.  Obviously, I don't get it.  I go back to bed, obviously indifferent to his pain.

During the day, despite frequent exercise chasing his toys, he'll tear around corners in the house after his sister, Lucy.  How dare I infantilize him with my pathetic offering of yarn toys, anyway.  Only after Lucy has exhausted herself running away from him will he occasionally settle down for a one-eye-open nap.

He graces us with his regal presence anytime we go into the bathroom.  Don't try to tiptoe so that he won't hear you.  That's insulting.  Are we less than thrilled to have a furry, purring companion during all bathroom activities?  That's absurd.  Soak up the love while it is given.  Turn on the faucet too, in a small, yet steady stream.  Make sure it's not dripping.  Leave it on for as long as he needs it.  Don't pretend you have something more important to do.

He retires to rest again.  After all, nighttime will be here soon, and with it, a new chorus of mournful meows.

Perhaps this would all be solved if I could afford to buy Tucker a red convertible and some expensive sunglasses.  Doesn't every hardworking man deserve some fun?  A chance to cut loose?  To leave his responsibilities behind?

Tucker, your six-dollars-a-bag organic dental treats are going to have to do for now.  Sorry.

Love,
Mom