Cats are cool. They may be thrilled that we're home, but they never go all to pieces — there's no vulgar display of, say, barking, licking, jumping, sniffing, and drooling. We're treated to a quieter, more civilized welcome; you can read it in their eyes.
Now that I think about it, cats behave like New Englanders. Dogs are from parts of New Jersey.
As soon as we return from a trip, my husband rushes to unpack his suitcase and put everything away. Otherwise, I'd be inclined to postpone all that depressing effort for a day or two, or maybe a week or two, but he sets such a good example that I have to follow suit. So we unpacked, sorted the mail, listened to the answering machine (two actual voicemails, 12 hangups and robocalls), and even did laundry and grocery shopping within a couple of hours of our return — all the while fussing over the cats and cleaning up torn tissue paper, dead shopping bags, and other evidence of their adventures.
Harris curled up and slept in a ball between us last night, according to my husband. I was sound asleep and missed it. But Possum also came visiting two or three times toward dawn, walking around on me and head-butting my hand so I'd awaken and pet him. It's always great to see him, and I told him so.
Maine is glorious, and we love spending every minute we can outdoors... but it's nice to be back.
Swimsuits drying on our porch overlooking Southwest Harbor.