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My packing instructions don’t take long, mostly because I don’t have thatmuch stuff.
“I’m taking this with me,” I tell Art as I gently put Woofer into one of the million boxes the movers brought before adding in his charging dock and other accoutrements.
Oh, no! I’m going to have a new human overlord. A male one—and therefore hairier. Why, iRobot Corporation? Why me? A bigger place also means more dust. Maybe this box should get lost on the way? Or run over by a bulldozer?
Art blinks at the box. “Is that a Roomba?”
Nodding, I close the lid.
“You won’t need that,” Art says. “I have a cleaning lady.”
I scoff. “Woofer is like family. He’s coming with.”
“I see.” Art reaches to take the box. “I didn’t realize that a robotic vacuum cleaner was such a serious commitment.”
“Be careful with him.” I hand over my precious.
Art takes the box as if it were an infant and carries it slowly to the minivan. “Anything else you want to personally carry?”
I decide that I do. I make everyone leave, and then I pack my underwear, sex toys, and laptop into a box that I label “PRIVATE.”
“Ready now,” I say.
Art reaches to carry the box, but I refuse to give it to him—in case something starts to vibrate inside and thus gives the game away.
“Can we talk now?” I ask as we get moving.
“In a second.” Art turns the wheel and glances at me. “Do you know a cat?”
I stare at him. “Do I know a what?”
“A cat.”
I blink a few times. “That’s what I thought you said. I still don’t get it, though.”
“We need a cat. Just for a short while.”
“We do?”
He stops at a red light and looks at me, his face dead serious. “According to Russian tradition, the first entity to walk into a new home must be a cat.”
I cock my head. “Tradition or superstition?”
He sighs. “Do you know a cat or not?”
The red light turns to green, and we resume driving as I do something I never thought I would: catalogue all the cats in my acquaintance to figure out which of them I want involved in my marriage.
The pickings are slim. Blue has a cat named Machete, but he’s a scary motherfucker, and I want Art’s eyes and other bits to stay intact, thank you very much. Honey also has a cat. Hers is named Bunny, and—according to Honey—is a psychopath. I’m not sure if that helps this Russian tradition or hurts it.
“Let me call my sister,” I say and dial Honey.
“Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Can Art and I borrow your cat?”
Silence.
“It’s this Russian tradition,” I say.
