In just under a month, Malcolm, a.k.a. Boo, a.k.a. Little Boy Boo, has evolved from a hissing, hiding, touch-me-not feral cat into a purring attention whore who lives to follow me everywhere I go. When I sit down, he's there. When I get in bed, he's there. When I go upstairs or downstairs, he's there, usually getting underfoot in a manner that threatens to send us both tumbling to our doom.
It might be giving Malcolm too much credit to say he's figured out that a warm, snug home, replete with food and petting and soft furniture to lie on, beats a cold, wet, dirty alley full of cars and other dangers. However, he does seem to be enjoying his good fortune. He's filled out lots, has a ridiculously thick and glossy coat, and has learned how to play with toys and sit on a lap. He's also locked in a struggle for dominance with Catherine, who has no intention of letting some little upstart overthrow her as ruler of the house. She kicks his ass at least five times a day, sometimes for a specific infraction like trying to take the coveted spot on my bed, sometimes just because she walked past and decided that he needed some schooling. On the other hand, I've also caught her sniffing and licking him, so she must not think he's all bad.
Now that he's out and getting around more, we've discovered that he has a slight limp and some trouble jumping up on things, possibly from an accident when he was living wild. It doesn't hurt him or stop him from running around (or away from Catherine, when she's in a mood), and he can make it onto the bed or sofa by grabbing the edge with his front paws/claws and scrabbling with his rear legs until he gets up, but it's probably for the best that he's not trying to fend for himself outdoors anymore. He's a happy kitten -- a teenage cat by now, I suppose -- and we're glad to have him.