Moving Mess and a Judging Dora
I am Azmi, writing from Meknes, and I must report that my move is being supervised. Moving house next weekend, boxes half-packed, tape gun missing, and Dora pushed the door open this morning, surveyed the chaos with the expression of a building inspector, and took up her post in the middle of the mess. Human, her stare said, what are you doing in that water bowl? Packing at 3pm, judged by noon. The house is chaos and she audits all of it.
Every construction site needs an overseer, and Dora has appointed herself to the role with the confidence of someone who has never been asked. Her methods are rigorous. She begins with the perimeter walk: nose into every open box, chin-rub on every sealed one, marking the inventory as hers before the movers can claim it. Then comes the paperwork phase, in which she sits directly on the packing list and refuses relocation. Then the safety inspection, in which she tests every bubble-wrap sheet for chewability and every blanket pile for flop-potential. Nothing leaves this house without her stamp, and her stamp is a single disdainful ear-flick.
Findings of the inspection
The overseer’s preliminary findings are damning. Finding one: the human packed the treats last instead of first, a sequencing error she flagged by rattling the treat bag at full volume. Finding two: a water bowl was moved six inches without consultation, and she stood beside the displaced bowl for a full minute so I would understand the gravity of it. Finding three: packing noises during nap hours, specifically the crinkle of tape at three in the afternoon, which is apparently an ungodly hour. Management has noted all of it. Corrective action is expected. Daft human, wise bun.
Her supervision style is pure theatre. She positions herself in doorways, forcing step-overs that she critiques with a huff. She flops in the exact square meter I need next, limbs spread, eyes closed, radiating the message that the floor is hers and the boxes are trespassers. Yesterday I found her inside an empty moving box, sitting upright like a queen in a carriage, daring me to pack around her. I packed around her. The box now contains one folded blanket, three chew toys, and a rabbit who refuses to vacate. It is labelled FRAGILE in three languages and it is the only box I trust.
The safe room, per management directive
Beneath the comedy sits a real plan, because moving stresses rabbits and I take that seriously. My first directive from the overseer, interpreted generously, is the safe room: on moving day Dora gets one finished room first, set up before anything else, with blankets carrying my scent and every familiar object in its familiar place. Food, water, and hiding spots go in before boxes pile up anywhere near her. The rest of the house can wait. This approach matches what I packed for our last trip, when my carrier pack list taught me to grab the familiar things first when we must leave. Same principle, bigger truck.
My second directive is appetite watch. My vet has always told me that after any big disruption I should monitor eating and droppings closely and call the clinic promptly with any concern, and I follow that guidance to the letter during moves. I am not diagnosing anything here and this is not health advice, only my own routine: fresh hay available through the chaos, water bowls kept full and unmoved where possible, and the vet’s number on the fridge in both houses. Slow rooms and familiar smells carry the emotional side. The professionals carry the medical side, and I never confuse the two.
The judgment, meanwhile, I accept as moving tax. Every box I seal earns a stare. Every furniture shift earns a thump. When I wrapped her tunnel in plastic she circled me twice, slowly, the way judges circle a questionable decision, then bit the plastic once, decisively, and walked away. Verdict delivered. I unwrapped the tunnel. Some battles are not worth fighting, and all battles against Dora fall in that category. The house rules I normally enforce, the ones I wrote down in my couch time rules for our home, are suspended until further notice. The overseer has seized the gavel.
Three in the afternoon packing is apparently an ungodly hour, and as I write this she is asleep on the pile of clothes I meant to sort, one ear up, one ear down, snoring faintly through the judgment. The boxes can wait ten minutes. The audit is adjourned. When we roll into the new house next weekend, she will push some new door open, inspect some new room, and find me doing something foolish with a water bowl. I am counting on it. A move without supervision is just relocation. With Dora presiding, it is already home.
Next in this chapter…
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