The moving adventures of Jackson the cat

Whenever I move house, I always hire movers. I tried U-Haul a couple times, but with the gas cost, my relatively small amount of large stuff, and the trouble I have with driving large trucks, it's just a better deal all around to hire a couple guys who do this for a living. So, when I was going to move this time, I called my favorite neighborhood moving company and scheduled them to come at 11:00 yesterday. I figured this would be late enough that I wouldn't have to miss my club ride--I could finish riding by 10 and be home by 10:30, plenty of time to make the appointment. I could even shower!

They arrived at 10:20. Normally, arriving early would be a good thing, but in this case, it caused a bunch more stress than we bargained for...most notably for Jackson the cat.

Jackson is our most timid cat, and he has an attachment to me. If we have company when I'm not home, he hides under the bed, or the couch, or in the closet, or any number of other hidey-holes he's made for himself inside the furniture. When my mother-in-law cat-sits for us on vacation, she hardly ever sees Jackson before the 3rd or 4th day, and then only because the boy needs to eat. By the end of the week, he's usually grown accustomed enough to her that he'll come out and sit on the couch, maybe even let her pet him. So he adjusts to new people eventually, but mostly he's a big pussy. (Pun totally intended.)

Knowing that the strangeness of the movers and the chaos they brought with them would freak out all 5 cats, I had planned on crating Jackson and Norman (the two cats going with us) before the movers came. Since they came early, this did not happen, and we got a little more stress than we bargained for.

When the movers came, Jackson did what he always does--he hid under the bed. And what's the first thing the movers did? Moved the bed. So Jackson hid again, they uncovered him again, round and round and round she goes. By the time I got home at 10:45, only the sofas were left*, the cats were all freaked out, and there was no sign of Jackson. Since all the doors were open and chaos ruled, I didn't think much about the cats. They would fend for themselves, then show up when things calmed down again.

We got through the move and set up the furniture in the new house with no further incident. I was appalled at how dirty the sofa looked in the immaculate new house (sadly, I fear that it won't be that way for very much longer), particularly a palm-sized orange-brown stain at the center of the bottom edge that I didn't remember. I didn't worry about it much, though, because the fabric is Scotchguarded. I made a mental note to get some cheap rags and oxy-clean, then got on with my life.

While the movers were bringing in the bedroom furniture, Noah called. "Is Jackson with you? Because we can find all the other cats, but not him."
"No, he's not with me. He's probably hiding, or got out with the doors open. He'll come back when he thinks it's safe. He'll be fine, hon, don't worry."

And I wasn't worried yet, but I asked the movers all the same, "I hate to ask this, but when you moved the furniture, did you happen to see any cats jump out of it? Because we're missing one."

"A LOT of cats jumped out of stuff, ma'am." Great...I'm totally the crazy catlady story when they get back to the office.

"Okay, thanks."

About an hour later, I was back at Rob's house, and Jackson was still missing. Rob and Noah had already looked everywhere he could hide inside the house, so I checked all the nearby bushes outside. The more I searched, the more worried I got. With his claw covers and his natural cowardice, he wouldn't fare very well with the gangs of strays roaming the neighborhood. Rob asked a couple times if he could have gotten on the truck. No, I insisted that he couldn't have gotten on the truck, becausee the movers spent 10 minutes at my house cleaning and rearranging it, and surely they would have noticed a 12-lb black-and-white fraidycat.

Still worried, I walked the block a few more times calling Jackson's name, rechecked the closets and garage. Rob got in his car to drive the neighborhood looking for him. I decided this was the best we could do, and decided to make a run to Home Depot.

On the way to the store, that stain on the sofa came back to me, along with a terrible thought--what if I didn't notice it before because it's fresh? What if Jackson DID get on the truck, inside the sofa? Could that be a bloodstain, soaked through from the inside? I abandoned my trip to Home Depot and raced to the house.

I ran to the living room and sprawled on the floor next to the couch. I felt the stain--damp. SHIT! I started palpating the under-lining of the furniture, and there it was--a warm, heavy lump. Jackson! I started talking to him, begging him to say something, move, anything. I got nothing. I called Rob.

"Rob, you need to come over to the new house. I found Jackson inside the couch, I don't know if he's dead or alive, he's not making any noise and he's not moving. He may be alive but I don't know how bad he's hurt, there's a stain on the couch and ohmygodIcan'tbelieveIletthishappen!"

"Tell me how to get there."

This is one of the reasons I married the man. I just wish it had been enough.

While I waited, panicked, I tried to tear the lining off the bottom of the couch and get to Jack. It was surprisingly strong. I managed to tear a small hole, and I stuck my fingers in. I was able to touch him, and started stroking his fur and talking to him. He leaned his head into my hand. He was alive!

I pulled the couch out from the wall, and discovered that it was completely torn along the back side. I was able to see Jackson now, and he had moved to the other side of the couch. So he could move on his own, and I was relieved to see that he didn't have any gaping wounds. He looked back at me, silent. I called him to come out, and reached in to pet him some more and coax him out. He let me pet him, but I was afraid to drag him out in case he had broken bones or internal bleeding from being bounced around inside the moving truck.

I called Rob to let him know Jack was alive, then called the emergency vet. They gave me directions and pricing, and then Rob arrived. He was able to tear the lining some more and lift up the back of the couch so I could gently pull the cat out. We examined him and found no external injuries, Rob felt his legs, checked both ends for bleeding, palpated his belly and sides. All seemed fine. He was obviously terrified, and he had a muscle spasm going in his back leg, but he didn't seem to be in any pain.

We took him into the master closet and watched him walk, which he was able to do. When we opened the door and let him have a look around, he examined a couple rooms then took refuge under the exact middle of the bed. After discussing for a few minutes, we decided to wait for the vet till Monday--Rob made the excellent point that, shitty as it may sound, if he has massive internal injuries, he probably won't survive the night no matter what we do. Since he didn't seem to be in any pain, we can save the (exorbitant) emergency vet bill by waiting it out overnight. So Rob lifted the bed, and I went in and got the cat (poor guy...he was probably thinking the world was coming to an end--"all my hiding places are destroyed!"). We put him in the laundry room with food, water, a rug, and a litterbox, and left the house.

When I called the emergency vet back, I got a tech who found the whole situation hysterically funny (man, am I glad she didn't answer the phone the first time I called...then again, my tone was probably more relaxed this time), but who pretty much validated what we had already done. Her advice was that he was probably fine, but put him in a small space with everything he needs so that he can calm down.

Noah and I are going back there this morning, and I really hope Jackson's okay. Even though our cats have torn up our furniture (they did not always have claw covers), ruined our carpet, cost a small fortune in vet bills, and covered our clothes in hair, I kinda love the little guys.

(Oh, and the stain on the couch that led to Jackson's discovery? There's some debate about that around here. Rob checked it and thought Jackson vomited in the couch, and I agree. Noah, however, insists that it's an old marinara sauce stain--prompting a brief chat about TELLING ME WHEN HE SPILLS SOMETHING ON THE DAMNED COUCH. Either way, it was definitely not blood, and for that I'm thankful. Really, I'm grateful it was there in the first place, because I wouldn't have found Jackson nearly as quickly without it. Of course, Not grateful enough to leave it there--scrubbing it away is the first thing on my to-do list this afternoon. And then I'm going to get to work on the cushions.

*lest you think that I cleaned Rob out--we negotiated the division of the furniture. I did end up with most of the furniture we bought after we got married, mainly because he didn't like it much in the first place.