I have heard, and can certainly verify, that moving is one of the most stressful decisions a person, couple, or family can make. I've never known someone who has experienced an "easy move." Saying goodbye to friends, family, and loved ones is included in the moving process. I can pack boxes until my back gives out, but I find goodbyes much more difficult to deal with. As much as I try to prepare, saying goodbye is always the hard part.
This entry is about those I have had to say goodbye to. Many of my colleagues and friends will remain just that (with a bit of effort). They are the bonds that will continue. The ones that will not are the ones that hurt a bit more. I have had to say goodbye to three pets while down in Louisiana: Raspi, the bearded dragon (Pogona Vitticeps); Igor, the green basilisk (Basiliscus Plumifrons); and finally Moni, my first cat.
Raspi died a bit too young. The hard part is that I blame myself for her demise. According to statistics, she reached her life expectancy, but due to my naive negligence I feel she left a bit too soon. Igor is a happier story. Learning from experience, I felt apprehensive about his ability to survive the two-day northern migration. For those of you unfamiliar with reptiles, they do not have a very strong immune system. Green basilisks are especially "flighty" and nervous creatures (they can "walk" on water after all!). I felt that Igor, having reached and surpassed his life expectancy, was particularly vulnerable to the stress--and consequent complications--of the move. Ann and I were fortunate to find him a good home down in Louisiana with our friends who will provide, love, and care for him, as they do their own reptiles. 
Moni, my cat of thirteen years, was put to sleep on May 28 of this past year. I reluctantly adopted her as a kitten during the summer of 1994 while working up in Syracuse, NY as a lifeguard. I was entering into my senior year at SUNY Oswego, and had moved into an off-campus house. Moni, a terribly skinny but irresistible young kitten emerged out of the poolhouse attic. I decided to feed her the ham and cheese from my sandwich, and the deal was sealed. She had a collar on, but after some extensive searching, I concluded that she was abandoned and decided to take her home. During the 45-minute commute back to Oswego, she curled up right in my lap and proceeded to fall asleep. Unfortunately, while sleeping, she also inadvertently urinated in my lap as well (this may sound familiar to any parents out there). After two weeks of shuttling her back and forth in the hopes of having her claimed, she became my first cat.
Looking back on her inauspicious beginnings, I realize how fortunate and memorable her ending was. Her sickness, undetermined, came quickly. The decision to put her to sleep was relatively easy, and her sendoff could not have been better. Ann and I, through the suggestion of two very good people and close friends, decided to submerge her in the Atchafalya River, fulfilling both a biological and spiritual desire in both of us. The weather broke just as we headed out. Along with some flowers picked by our friends, we released her, wrapped in her favorite blanket inside a basket and said our goodbyes. Two months later, as we departed for our move up to Wisconsin, both Ann and I cried as we drove over the river. They were tears of appreciation.
Now, we are in a new home and will make new friends. We recall the past with fondness and love, but embrace the possibilities of the future. With each transition, be it logistic, physical, spiritual, or emotional, we change and grow. I've read enough literature (and watched enough Star Trek) to understand the necessity of that growth--rapid or slow.
Live for today and sleep for tomorrow,
Dragon James
