Transplant
You meowed quietly and stretched your legs when I picked you up from the ratty old basement chair, covered in fur and old bits of thrown up food. We looked around at the cracked yellow floor you’d walked across thousands of times and said goodbye to the swinging door I cut for you to make nighttime escapes. You said goodbye to the rows of fenced-in backyards that you’d indiscriminately considered your home for the past 8 years, your entire life, and went up the stairs, you cradled in my arms.
We stopped for a moment and went upstairs. Would you like to say goodbye to the lady, fast asleep, in whose restless lap you liked to try to find a comfy resting place? The dog made you too anxious to stay long and then headed back down to the entry way, stripped of its familiar golden trim. You eyed the box, your least favorite place to spend any time and I coaxed you inside, meowing with more apprehension.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, little friend, I’m sorry but it has to be.”
“meow…”
You waited, unquietly, while I tethered the dog, whose excitement for any trip to anywhere would always be predictable and eventually I brought you with us out to the larger metal box where forces would jostle you around impolitely.
You reminded me of the first trip over five years ago when your breathing had grown strained and on our way to the doctor who would inspect your small, frail lungs and learn you suffered asthma, preparing you for a lifetime of forced puffs - one in the morning, one at night - to alleviate that struggle as we made our way north.
“meow”
“I know, I’ll miss it too.”
“meow”
“It won’t be long, I promise.”
I let you loose to explore the metal box for the rest of the trip. Your big friend lay quietly in the back as the streetlights streamed in, over, and past while you explored the front seat, armrest, and floor.
And eventually the box stopped - I opened the door, and you went out to explore your new home just past midnight.
“meow”
“I know - it’s not the same, but you’ll make friends. You always do.”