Moving stories

For the past few months, the wife and I have been searching for a new home in the Ann Arbor area. Nothing terribly glamourous; just a little place to call home for a couple years while she completes her MFA at U of M. We didn't think this would be terribly difficult - granted, we expected to find some apartments that we didn't like, but we weren't expecting the level of crap that we encountered.

For the most part, our search centered around Ypsilanti. Apartments there were affordable, and, from the pictures we saw, look to be of reasonable size and cleanliness. It was also a prime location, being close enough to Ann Arbor without contracting the expense of Ann Arbor properties.

This, we later learned, was mistake number one. All of the properties we viewed in Ypsilanti suffered from a few major deficits - either they were too small or in poor condition or both.

It wasn't too bad until we traveled there last weekend to check out apartments. I had scheduled an appointment with a very nice person to check out a two-bedroom apartment. As we turned onto the street, we noticed a police car at one of the houses. At this point my wife jokingly remarked, "I hope that's not at the place we're going to see." Nervous laughter ensued as we drew closer to the cops, while checking house numbers. As we passed one house, we saw three cops (one with his hand on his holstered gun) arguing with a very vocal woman on the porch.
"Oh, no," my wife sighed. "I think that's where we're supposed to be."
"Sonuva," I replied, and checked the house number.

Indeed it was where we were supposed to be.

We quickly drove off, and parked in a nearby lot. Without any real need for discussion, I called the property manager and left this message:
"Hi, yeah, we were supposed to check out a property with you today. We just drove past said property; there's some cops and yelling and bad craziness going on. I think we're going to pass on this."

As it turned out, the property we were going to check out was in one of Ypsilanti's many ghetto areas. Like Grand Rapids, they're ghetto by block, but in Ypsilanti the blocks are closer and occur with greater frequency. We did find an apartment in a decent area - small, but with great neighbors. That same day we found a place in Saline (another "suburb" of Ann Arbor). While the Ypsilanti apartment was decent, we decided to go with the Saline apartment. It's more expensive, but it's larger and will hold all of our stuff. As an added bonus, it's rather like our current digs - hardwood floors; fireplace - and it has large enough area to hold all of our art stuff.

Now comes the fun parts: schlepping all of our stuff to the new place sometime in August, and paying for utilities again.

Now I just need a decent job to pay for all this...

In Memorium

On Monday, 9 July, our older cat, Caerbrae, passed away. We had taken him into the vet to have an abcessed tooth removed, and he passed away in the recovery room.

My wife called me at work and broke the news to me. I remember sinking to the floor, thinking it all a mistake while she sobbed uncontrollably on the other end of the line. The rest of the day is a hazy blur. We went to the vet's office to pick him up; listened to their condolences - I'm certain they were heart-felt, but we were in too much shock to register anything. We left the office with Caerbrae, buried him, and quietly headed home. I don't think it really hit us Monday night. The shock of the loss was still incredibly new, and I think we really didn't know how to explain or understand what had happened.

It hit me on Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night of tossing and turning. As I got up to get ready for work, I suddenly realized how intensely quiet it was in the bedroom. He wasn't there to greet me with his short, pointed meows; wasn't there to steal a drink from my water glass on the nightstand. In the kitchen, he wasn't there to beg forlornly for tuna from the cabinet or purr loudly as he danced between my legs. When I got home from work, he wasn't there to greet me; wasn't waiting in the dining room chair for me to pet him and listen to him tell me about his day as I scratched his head; wasn't sitting in his bed in the window behind me, grooming and patiently awaiting attention. He wasn't there Tuesday night, curled up on our laps on the couch. He won't be there on Sunday, curled up on my lap on the couch as I take a break from some odd job.

He's gone.

As hard as this is on me, I know it's at least ten times worse for my wife. Caerbrae was her baby; her constant companion for over nine years. She held him in one hand when he was a kitten, and he burrowed into her hair at night. Every morning he chewed on her ears, and most nights he snuggled up next to her as she slept, her arm resting lightly on him, pulling him close. They were bonded extremely tightly, and having to bury him was the hardest thing she's ever had to do.

Caerbrae was an amazing cat. Highly intelligent, incredibly patient, and undeniably sensitive. He knew instantly when my wife was having a bad day, and would be by her side or curled up in her lap, purring so loudly that I'm sure the neighbors could hear him. He knew how to open the doors in the apartment, and knew exactly where we kept the cans of tuna. He was notorious for creating head-sized holes in bags of dry cat food - just large enough for him to get at the food without making a mess. He patiently tolerated Manny, our new kitten, and within a couple of weeks the two of them would be sleeping together contentedly either on the chair or in the cat bed.


There's too much about him to mention here, and I highly doubt that my clumsy words can do him justice. Suffice to say, he was the most amazing cat I've ever had the privilege to know. His personality and intelligence made him human, and that brought us closer to him than anything else.

I know that there are detractors out there who will say that "it's just a cat." To this, I must strongly disagree. To these people I ask this: have you ever had a pet that was more than a pet; a cat or a dog that became part of the family? If you have, then you understand; if not, then you'll never know how deep a loss you feel when they leave. Caerbrae was much more than this, and that is why we will feel his loss for a long, long time.

To those of you with pets, I charge you: hold them close; pay more attention to them. Play with them more often. Be patient when they falter. Be closer to them than you have been.

Because you just don't know when they'll be gone.