I Iz All Up On Ur Couch, Hoggin Ur Blanket

I am writing this from my sister's bedroom, a place where I would never dare to venture were there not a cat in it.

Yes, folks. You may not be as mindblowingly excited about this as I am, but as Mr. Bennett would say, I have reason to expect an addition to our family party! After a bleak parade of inconveniences--the cat got sick, the cat had to be fixed, the cat was in Lynnwood--yesterday we were FINALLY able to pick her up from PAWS, stick her in a crate, and listen to her bleat every five seconds as we embarked on the long ride home. When we dumped her out in Ursula's room, it was quickly established that anything that might otherwise occupy our minds was pushed to the margins by the small beast. Alas, my kingdom for a cat.

It was also quickly established that by the grace of fortune, we had adopted the best cat in existence. Over the next 24 hours this was reconfirmed many times, mostly because

1. This cat will jump on/climb over/claim as property anything over a foot high, and still leave everything perfectly in place. Example: she climbed into one of my bookshelves--which is filled not with books but with Egyptian knickknacks and an encyclopedia about gnomes (which you may think counts as a book until you read it)--and managed to weave her way through the bookshelf without knocking over any of the gubbins. The one thing she has accidentally stepped in was my dad's Sunday breakfast, for which she deserves a hug.

2. Apparently, most cats really love using their claws to tear up furniture and blankets and their owners' thighs. Our cat defies them all. In the day we've had her (although it's probably little indication), she's been all over the couch, Ursula's bed, and all of our legs, and hasn't clawed a single thing.

3. She frequently goes into Slab Mode (as shown in the above photo) and, when she turns her head to the side, looks like a fur log. Or a weasel.

4. When not in Slab Mode she is incurably energetic, and flies around the house sliding on the wooden floors and crashing into walls. I think she likes it. Just a moment ago she was chasing a strip of fleece that my mom was holding, and did a somersault. Good Lord.

5. When I said "listen to her bleat every five seconds," the word "bleat" was not simply chosen as a saltier verb. She actually makes a noise that is less like a cat, and more like a sheep...or a duck.

However, as you may have noticed, the cat remains nameless. This is largely because my sister wants to call her Birdie and I will have none of it. Until a name is decided, my mom has resorted to calling the cat Bunny, a name last used for Ursula during her first six months of life, when she too was nameless.

Goodness. Birdie and Bunny. This cat is going to have an identity crisis.