They know.

I'm sorting through paperwork, throwing some (most) away. It's making them agitated; they have become suddenly playful, but in a nervous, almost desperate way. They are running around the room, darting under the bed, jumping on the dresser, but they can't run and I can't hide them from the misery to come. They know; they aren't stupid. They have repeatedly learned that sorting and throwing away papers means they have to go into a box that goes into a vehicle that goes on forever to somewhere that isn't home. But this time they're wrong.

This time it is going home. Wherever it turns out to be.