Oh hai!

Her name is Fred. She’s seven weeks old. And she’s been with us since Saturday afternoon.

God, I’d completely forgotten how tiring kittens can be. It’s all bounce bounce bounce attack invisible dust on the floor claw her way up the drapes to the top drop down to the chair below run like crazy chase her tail bounce bounce pounce on the cat toy zip from the living room to the den and back again and hunker down and waggle her behind threateningly at Chloe before ending up back on the sofa.

Then, without warning, her head will grow extremely heavy and drag her down into a sudden nap.

Minutes later, she’s up again, bouncing and running and zippling and leaping and clawing her way through the house like the Tasmanian Devil, a little whirlwind of fur and hoise and wild eyes.

She is a very sweet kitten, a lap cat whose favorite spot to rest is on one of our chests, or perched on our shoulders. When she’s affectionate, she’s fond of butting her head against our faces and purring furiously. She has proclaimed the cat food we server in the kitchen absolutely deliskusk, and makes sure we know it by licking her chops loudly after every trip to the kitty buffet. She sleeps through most of the night, purring loudly in a tight ball by my face.

So far, there’s been an uneasy detente between Fred and the older cats. They scrutinize her constantly and have a tendency to growl when she comes too close, but they’re not actively beating her up. And last night, all three of them lay on the bed with the Mont and me while I was chatting with my dad on the phone—Fred purring in between us, Sarah purring on my chest, and Chloe at the foot of the bed in a doze. After a mere twenty-four hours together, I’m declaring the progress good. Even if today, Fred’s pleasure lies pretty much solely in hiding places and leaping out at Chloe whenever she passes.