Moon Unit will start having her leashed walks around her new home tomorrow. Whenever I tell her she's going to have a new mommy, she bites me. She knows how I feel about it, that I feel like I'm a neglectful parent, dropping everything and taking off for the furthest tropical island when, in stopping by the shelter and having my fingers bitten at through the bars, I'd taken on a responsibility that can't (or at least shouldn't) be shrugged off in two years.

Her papers read 'Larinda'. It was unanimous among all of us: who would, upon seeing a four month old calico kitten, think 'Larinda! Of course! That's it!'? In large letters across the top was written 'BITER'. Her stomach was shaved from a two-day-old spaying. "She may be a little lethargic," said the employee who was carrying a writhing, snapping 'Larinda' into the visiting room. She set the kitten down and the kitten immediately rolled over and became a furry machine with eighteen sharp, slashing points. This one, I immediately thought. This one for sure.

She is in my abandoned Mac box right now, staring at me balefully, which is the only way she's been staring at me since I've been treating her like I'm not going to see her for a year. She doesn't like to be touched, but she likes to be in the same room with people. She likes doling out pieces of her territory to those she deems fit.