G has been begging for a second cat to go along with Catherine, so I decided to upset the delicate balance of cattery in the house (two humans to cater to the demands of one cat is the perfect ratio, at least from the cat's point of view) and take in a little black alley cat that a friend of mine had found. We named him Malcolm, because we like to give our pets people names, and he's been here since yesterday.
So far, he's not adapting nearly as well as Catherine did. After having to retrieve him from tight spaces several times, we shut him in G's bathroom, where he apparently spent the night in the sink despite having a nice blanket-lined box to sleep in. This morning, he mewed at us when we went in to check on him, and seemed interested in coming out and looking around, so we left the door open. As he was venturing out onto the stairs, Catherine came by and hissed and spit at him, prompting G to shout "Bad girl, Catherine! Don't you know the meaning of friendship?" and prompting Malcolm to shoot under the couch and attach himself to the carpet like an inky black slug.
I moved the couch at least ten times and still couldn't get him out, but I didn't want to leave him there because Catherine was watching him balefully from the other side of the room and I knew she wouldn't let him come out once we left. So I turned on the vacuum, and he shot out again -- straight into the fireplace, where he clung to the gas logs and wouldn't let go. G and I finally managed to shoo him out of there, and I wrestled him upstairs and into the bathroom again.
When I came home from work, I opened the bathroom door and went downstairs for, I kid you not, twenty seconds to get the bag of cat food. I came back and he had vanished without a trace. I knew he hadn't gone downstairs or I would have seen him, but I couldn't find him anywhere. G finally spotted him lurking far underneath my bed.
The cat's like a damn ninja -- fast, strong, and impossible to see in the shadows. He's come out of hiding a few times this evening to walk around and explore, and every time Catherine has hissed or growled at him and sent him flying again. She hasn't tried to attack -- they're about the same size, so it's anyone's guess who would win if she did -- but she's not pleased by his presence either.
On another note, we're going to church tomorrow morning for Thanksgiving, and G is already complaining bitterly about it. We went to a memorial Mass for P a couple of weeks ago (at Saint Monica's, which is an awesome church), and I let her sneak in a book to read because I wanted to concentrate on the service and not spend the entire time telling her to be quiet. I don't suppose I ought to let her get into that habit, though -- it's not very respectful. This is exactly why P thought, and I agree, that kids really shouldn't be forced to go to church if they don't want to: when you go with an attitude of resentment, you get nothing out of it and might as well have stayed at home. Personally, I enjoy going, and I'm not even Catholic -- I'd gladly take G every week if she wanted to go -- but I'm an adult and it's my choice to be there. She's got no choice. Though I do think that almost eight is old enough to suck it up and sit quietly for an hour, especially when you're only asked to do it once every few months.