18 Apartments

 The latest is number 19 though my brothers, who've helped me through many moves, would claim I've lived in many more. Actually it only feels that way especially after a scant two weeks after the big box-up. 
After 7 years on the waste island, waking up in the city feels like waking up in Paris. I walk Eddy to the Second Cup for a latte and a croissant then down Greene to his old haunts. Funny how he remembers who to hit up for cookies. He stands inside the bank and barks and people come running. I have to warn them not to pet him or even put out their hands--there's something about flapping fingers in front of his face that sends him absolutely ballistic--but they're oddly forgiving. "He's old. He's allowed to be crabby." (Uh no, the word actually is psycho but even that's okay. Westmounters are a lot like Parisians when it comes to their dogs which means almost anything goes. People are a different matter.)
It's because of Eddy that the boxes have to go and soon. He's a tiny dog and the boxes lining the wall, piled five high, threaten to topple and crush him. With a new season of bookselling on its way, more boxes are on their way.
The problem in a tiny place is there's no place to put things while unpacking. The kitchen is the worst and for now, I've had to give up cooking. I have enough counter space for a cutting board or dish rack. And the cutlery tray is taking up half the space I thought I created by moving in a little table. I know it's going to come together--I envision the dishrack above the sink (oh where are you, handyman of my dreams?) and another shelf above that. But right now I'm gnashing my teeth and stashing the knives away.