"Get used to it"

Surrounded by boxes, our dog is confused. Very confused. This poor lad has only known this home, our first home and his. After spending the majority of the morning underneath the porch overhang, I let in our puppy to sniff the two movers who had, with fervor, packed up our kitchen and living room in less than four hours. With a tail wagging he greeted our visitors and then went looking for his bed. Finding boxes in its place, he proceeded to sniff/inspect each box with the reach of his black nose.

My man in blue and I had spent the previous two days prepping the house. A daughter of an Army drill sergeant, and now a proud Coastie wife, I am an expert at PCSing. For the past 30 years, I have moved every 2 to 4 years. Typically, I am the one on the receiving end, unpacking our belongings by myself. But don’t get me wrong- I have no issues with this. It saves me the “discussion” on where items should go. I get carte blanche to decorate as I please. But nevertheless, this takes planning. And by staging the household items in groups, or even specific sections of the house, it helps me unpack them with ease in our next home. This helps even more with a new floor plan; one of which I am not sure where each belonging will reside.

As we folded the linens and placed them in vacuum sealed bags and stacked the pictures and frames in a central location, the dog was caught in turmoil. Usually, he finds a comfortable spot equidistant between my husband and me, and snoozes. The warzone that was our home this past weekend was littered with bags, boxes, extension cords, tubs of clothes, and an ever-moving vacuum as we sucked the air out of those handy-dandy space bags. Needless to say, he paced, followed us around, and barely accumulated his requisite hours of napping (aka beauty rest).

At the end of the two-day prep session, we celebrated with some steaks and Alaska ambers. We spoke of our own feelings about the upcoming move- apprehension about the new moving company we selected from the small pool of vendors here on the Rock; our plans for cooking what is left in our fridge/freezer; which vendors we need to contact to shut off services here and whom to contact to turn on those in the next home. Our conversation drifted to our dog, chiding him to “get used to it.” After all, he will be subject to the same routine every two years for the remainder of his life. At that my beloved quipped, “Who knows, he could make it to my retirement.”

And then it dawned on me that what had become routine for me will be, eventually, be no more. A lifestyle, somewhat nomadic, that I had clung to for so long would end. At some point, later in life, I would settle. At the same point when our pet gets used to moving, we’ll retire. And then I will have to “get used to it.” Oy vey.