Now, Harold had a traumatic experience that is much more blog-worthy. My landlord has put the house on the market (again: it didn't sell the last time he listed it, in 2005), and there was a showing today. The realtor came in with a nice older couple (older than me, is all I mean), and Pan was dancing around the kitchen trying to decide if he dared get close enough to sniff them (he has a very curious nose). One of them commented on how he wasn't running away, and I pointed out Harold, the lump under the blanket on the bed, and said that he would be thinking about whether he should run now. And the woman walked right up to the bed and lifted the blanket to pet him: she loves animals!
Well. Harold about had a heart attack. He is very skittish and very shy. We live on a dead-end street, so once a week the garbage truck backs down the street, beeping, to pick up, and though we have lived here for three and a half years, Harold still runs and hides from that noise. If he wants to come talk to you he might, but it's on his terms. Poor thing was so upset. He's actually very loving with me, and every pet-sitter I've ever had has raved about him: one called him "The Love Hog" for the way he threw himself down in front of her, begging for attention. But he decides, you know?
Finally, I ran across something that explains why I live in New England, despite not liking cold, and snow, and despite moving to NC (ohmigod, 12 years ago) to get warmer. Franklin posted about maybe moving away from Chicago, and got a ton of comments about where, and one of his commenters said:
"There is no place that is home unless you want it to be."
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