So the movers are coming tomorrow, well, today actually. Well, in perhaps as little as five hours, and all hell is gonna break loose here in Tuscaloosa. No, not how you might think. Everything for my impending move to Canton, Ohio is at the ready.
Most of my things have been packed up since we moved to Alabama in May of last year. Amber had been offered a fantastic opportunity at the University of Alabama, and with a tenure track line at an R1 institution, she’s ain’t goin’ anywhere for the foreseeable future. I followed her down here of course, then finished my dissertation in July, defended in November, and graduated in December. We kept everything still boxed up even when I moved to New Jersey, because I took very little there with me.
So now that I’ve accepted a position at Walsh University, I’ve also become a first time home owner, hence the need for the move. The problem is, and the need for a Threat Level Orange communication briefing, is that among the hustle and bustle of this morning’s move, a certain burly iguana is going to lose his home. Like the twister roaring across the dusty Kansas plains, iggy’s home shall be picked up and taken away in a swirling vortex of professional movers.
Alas, there will be an Elmira Gulch to blame. While angry at me in a confused swirl of feelings of abandonment and resentment, I know with relative certainty that my wife shall be the target of his ire. “You did this!” his little reptile brain will surmise, and he’ll bristle and puff up like the Wizard’s hot air balloon as he ditched Dorothy and her sad sack trio of worthless friends behind.
Since iguanas are such creatures of habit, it’s understandable. Anything out of order or off schedule may cause a problem. To be honest, if it wasn’t for the teeth and claws, you’d excuse me for saying that iguana temper tantrums are downright adorable. Dorian will swell right up, and stomp around the house like the Stay Puft Man through the Upper West Side. You can hear him in other rooms of the house with this thump-click cadence as he saunters around, looking for humans to communicate his displeasure.
When you talk to him, he’ll give you a serious head bob, letting you know, he’s not happy, and there’s nothing you can do about it – which is partially true. If you carefully pick him up and set him on the bed, the comfiness of the bedding will assuage the savage beast, but only after he gives you a bit more of a peace of his mind. It’s funny because, really, that’s all it takes. Imagine if we could get the Donald to stop his derisive candor and hurling of epithets just by offering him a comfy chaise lounge?I’m not sure it would help his electability, but it may endear him to the iguana vote.
Dorian’ll also avoid eating for a while, before eventually hunger wins out. The more he can avoid Amber’s stare, the quicker that protest is broken. “I don’t want her watching me eat!” Ordinarily, if he really gets in a huff, his appetite will increase, and he’ll go through two or three bowls before the end of the date. Funny how a temper tantrum makes you hungry, huh?