Meet Malena! Or Luna. We're not really sure yet. All we know is that her tag at the animal shelter said Bethany, and if I'm certain about anything regarding this kitty, her name is definitely not Bethany.

After much deliberation and two other cats that almost went back with us instead, this little girl came home yesterday afternoon in a cat crate, yowling desperately ever few seconds and then, upon exit from the crate, utterly freaking out. She's doing much better at the moment, alternating coming out to lounge on the cushy sofa and then diving under the claw-foot tub, the most enclosed space she could find. I'm thinking that, after a life that consisted of a year on the streets and then a year in a little humane-society cage, she's not terribly used to hardwood floors and ceilings any higher than, say, two feet.

Oh, and ceiling fans. To our new housemate, ceiling fans are apparently the Spinning Asterisk Sign of the Apocalypse.

It's sort of strange, getting to know this cat who's still such a stranger that she doesn't have a name yet. I've had two cats before, and both of them just sort of happened - in other words, I didn't go down to the humane society a few weekends running and visit with everyone and then finally pick a pet out, job-interview-stylee. That process ... was sort of harrowing. It seemed like internet dating, or worse yet, speed dating. But maybe speed dating with an end game of an arranged marriage. Scary. What if we ended up with a holy terror whose mission in life was to shred everything in sight? I mean, not to be too picky, but I kind of like my curtains. And my knees.

So far, though, everyone seems pretty happy, and she seems to be thinking that sprawled out on one of the bed pillows is maybe a better place to be than kickin' it with the mildew under the tub. Good sign, yes?