It's the end of the world as we (mostly they) know it.


If you've ever spent more than three minutes in the car with an unhappy cat, you understand. But try 12 minutes. With two cats. Combine the fact that I was taking them away from "their" home, to a new home - and WHAM.

It's mass chaos. Everywhere.

I slept in my new apartment for the first time last night. The cats were also there, somewhere. Although I don't know how much they actually slept. Harley spent the night knocking things over. Jumping on window sills. Spilling cat food across the kitchen floor. Growling at Chicken, who wouldn't come out from under the covers. Not once. If a noise startled Chicken, she'd burrow deeper into the blankets, causing a scene, and making Harley growl.

What. Is. Going. On. Here? They've lost their dang minds. Just 24 hours prior - no, not even - three hours prior, they were ol' pals. Rough-housing, bathing, cuddling... playing nice. Suddenly it's every (wo)man for (her)self.

The apartment isn't big enough for the three of us. Literally. There are exactly two places to hide - wait, no. There are exactly zero places to hide. Everything is out in the open. There is no "under-the-bed," there is no "behind the couch." We all have to sit and stare at each other. Daring the other to make a move. Wagering on who will pull out a gun first. I don't even have cable. Or a radio. Nothing. Just silence. And two crazy cats.

I left the two of them alone this morning. As I slipped out the door, Chicken cowered under a ruffle of blanket, and Harley stalked across the floor in search of something to knock over, a look of destruction in her eyes. I warned them, though. I did.

"You two better behave, or when I get home there'll be Hell to pay," I said. "Don't make me separate you two."

(I pointed a finger at them with each syllable, for effect).

Little do they know, I can't separate them. Even if I wanted to. There's no where else to go.