We Are Here. Every cell in my body aches and drags, but we are here. Not all of our crap is, but we'll need the help of friends and a truck for that.
We'd gotten the first load, stopping to do the final, official fuss, get our keys, do the walk-through. Set up the litter box, make sure Moby had an Under. Went back for the next load, filled the car as it started raining in Earnest (a small town in rural Utah.) All the movement and rain mean Moby was crouched under the sofa when the time came to leave. I got on the floor and peered in on him.
"C'mon Moby, time to go."
And he came to me, as if to say, "Oh, ok, don't leave me behind, I'm coming."
D got in the back seat beside my stool, surrounded by bags and boxes, got his seatbelt on, and I handed Moby to him. As we drove, Moby was quiet, tried to settle, nosed toward my shifting elbow a few times, then found the floor behind D's feet, and curled. Unlike any other time in the car, where he mews piteously "I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this..." the entire journey. Only when we were a block away did he start in on "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" and "Ok, that was fun, can we stop now?" He didn't like the hallway, and wriggled out of D's arms, then slunk uncertainly. We got him into the apartment (flat), and he hid in the closet for the next eight hours.
Ever since, it's been tail up, chasing, doing the Big Job of marking all his new territory, getting it all properly furred. The new windows are acceptable, and the large bathtub is a favored spot. Food is forthcoming, water, a bed to be Under, and it's just another Move, happens every year at this time.
D's parents generously brought their vehicles, which meant we got the bedframe here, so we have not had to sleep with just the aerobed on the floor. All the guitars are here, so we are home.