In which I am schooled by a fuzzball

Our little household has had some adjustments to make over the last few months. One change that has really brought me up short has been the transition from a three-bedroom house {oh! the closets...the storage...the kitchen...the yard...} to a two-bedroom apartment.

A quick disclaimer: I am glad for a place to call my pad, a spot to stow our stuff, a homey hacienda, BUT. Color me wistful for the home I left in the Rockies.

I'm not the only one wrestling with change. La Kitty has had a rude awakening from the luxury of her own personal deck and fenced-in backyard. All the scents and tactile experiences of her protected personal slice of the outdoors have been rudely pulled from beneath her little paws. She wants to go outside sooooo badly, she rushes the door when I come home.

In an effort to be a good pet owner and make amends to the little apartment-bound princess, I attempted to take her for a walk last week. You know, a little stroll through the neighborhood so I can keep my watchful eye on her declawed self and make sure she stays safe. I sought out an idyllic opportunity to show my fur-child her surroundings at the end of a carefully controlled harness. {Besides, her posterior profile has been growing as of late.} Easy peasy, right? Or so I thought. The instant that harness clipped into place, Sal's righteous indignation boiled over and the walk turned into a sit.

Observe...me being studiosly ignored. La Kitty's finest cold shoulder. Crabby Cat ears directed at yours truly.

So, I guess a drive around town with the little one is out of the question.