'Tis then we discover that, less than 12 hours after our arrival in Canada, our bikes have been STOLEN. My beautiful pink bike, Rob's old mountain bike. Goddammit. Stolen. Gone. Even our helmets are gone. So, either Canada is not the crime-free paradise we were led to believe it is, or the crime has followed us here from the States. I call the police, and they take the report over the phone. I know well from past experience that our bikes will not be recovered. Rob is extremely disturbed about the whole thing, having never been robbed before. One of the perks of never being independently impoverished, I guess.
The realtor is SHOCKED when I tell her. She calls the homeowners. They are SHOCKED. They assure us again and again that nothing like this has ever happened here. Well, aren't we the lucky trailblazers!
Another day of Hell unloading the truck. The cats, with the exception of Plato, are a little freaked out. Pie hides inside the boxspring under the bed. Ruby disappears. I find a hole in the closet wall, where some insulation has been pulled out. Rob is convinced that Ruby went inside the wall and DIED. Which he keeps saying, which freaks out Zoë. I stick my arm in the hole. No way Ruby could fit in there. I think she's in the rafters in the laundry room, where she was hiding the night before.
We try to go out to dinner, but it gets too late. We go back to the store, grab some soup and bread, and have a decent, rustic dinner at home. While we're out at the store, Rob goes into the laundry room and pulls a Steve Martin, opening a can of cat food. Ruby comes out of hiding.
Denise is being a very good sport about everything. I advise her to never help us move again. Ever.
Tomorrow, she and I will drive back to Bangor to return the truck.
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