In people years, I am still the youngest. The Mexican dumpster-rat is enigmatic about his age, having come to us from a high-kill shelter in Little Rock, Arkansas. He doesn't like to talk about his time on the streets or his upbringing, but is suspected of being in his mid-fifties.
The Spanish bastardo, on the other hand, has been with me over 15 years. Since I got him as a wee black exclamation mark of an eight-week old kitten, I know him to be well-advanced into his 70s. I still encourage him to make the leap up and down the bathroom counter for his food-dish, a trip he still mostly makes solo.
We are all showing signs of age. The dumpster rat is sprightly, but has the yellowing teeth of a Dunhill-smoking senior. The cat is greying and has the slow, arthritic walk of an aging gunslinger. Me, I pulled out a long, black hair from the side of my neck the other day. It was one of those gross-but-fascinating moments, like squeezing a ripe blemish or marveling at the size of one's own bowel movement (a few I've saluted on their downward spiral).
Ah well, we're doing pretty well, all things considered. We do our little runs and eat well and get plenty of sleep. Still all making the counter-top solo, mostly.
We are now considering a move, dear readers. After many, many months of dallying with the real estate market, a Serious Offer has now come in. A Serious Counter-Offer has been made, and apparently I shall know more this afternoon. We may make one more pass, or the dance could already be over for all I know. (As I write this, a slow-moving SUV drives past, occupants' heads craned towards the house. The would-be owners? Potential stalkers?)
If they walk away, I have renters at the ready. I am moving to a nearby village in May, come hell or high water.
First, a note of explanation: I live in a Valley, composed of four distinct areas and governments. We have a rural regional district (where I currently live), a city which forms the commercial core, a seaside town and a village. The village is a former coal-mine hub in the foothills of the Valley, with a shabby-quaint main street and no perceptible industry. It has a kick-ass live music venue, good mountain-biking and character homes in various states of distress and resurrection.
My partner--yes, we have graduated to the stately and staid "partner" from fuck-buddy and gentleman caller, there's really nowhere left to go at this stage until we get hitched--lives in said village. He lives in an 830 sq ft house, but refuses to leave.
The Village claims people in this way. Once they move there, it is an imposition to cross the highway into the other parts of the Valley. Villagers only leave to forage for food, as they are limited to gas station pantries and a small, natural food store with prohibitive prices.
Relationships that Villagers build with outsiders end in either dissolution ("You're, like, 20 minutes away!"), or with the outsider moving into the Village. Hence, my inevitable move.
There are other reasons for the move, mind you. Mainly, it is unsavory to move in together into a house that one half previously shared with another half. I bought this place with my Ex, and although it is very nice and the animals enjoy the estate, it would be strange to live here with another. I also need to flip the Ex several thousand dollars, as per our settlement agreement, and he needs to remove his possessions, as it has been almost three years since our break-up. And so it goes.
Options are a) for me to move into my partner's hobbit-hole, putting some of my stuff into storage and transforming his detached workshop into an office or b) he and I to buy a place together. The latter would be preferable.
We've been eyeing a huge character home in the Village for some time now. Lucky for us from a price perspective, it is ugly and cold from the outside. Previous owners have raised it and sheathed it in vinyl siding. It squats on the edge of the street, a sulky giant retard of a house. One one side, a crude white church juts illegally into the side yard.
It has, however, that magic quality of potential. It has an unfinished ground floor which could convert to a two-bedroom rental suite. It has high ceilings throughout, original wainscoting, a good-sized fenced yard. (Together, we have four dogs and two cats, plus a part-time child and a fighting fish names the Godfather. We need some space.) It has three bedrooms (plus a good-sized office and a strange, narrow little den), and a huge unfinished fourth-floor attic with expansive views. Each floor is larger than my partner's entire house. There are two bathrooms. Very important, this.
We dare to dream. The church could burn down, one day, allowing our side yard to be re-instated. We could finish the downstairs and have a mortgage helper, finish the attic and have a cool hang-out zone/library/arty-place. We could build a cat door to the laundry room so the blasted felines could have entry and egress. Hell, if I have the eggs to spare we could even have a kid ourselves, we'd have room to put it.
All these things are very exciting. They outweigh the mild anxiety I have with regard to sharing my space with another. He is still, fourteen months in, the best man ever. And let's face it, none of us is getting any younger. We're both experienced enough to be truly appreciative of the other, and to know when something is good versus just good for a while. Besides, if my neck hair keeps growing I'll soon be shaving daily, and we can share lather and razors.
Will let you know how it goes, or doesn't.
Fingers crossed,
GR
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