She had us marked from the moment we walked over to her cage at the D.C. Animal Shelter a year ago. She rubbed herself against the bars, back and forth, itching for some attention.

“You can hold her if you want,” the volunteer said, “but she doesn’t like it when I pick her up.”

Leslye took the cat from the volunteer and held her in her arms. The cat didn’t struggle or complain - actually, she looked ready to take a nap. We exchanged smiles and decided that this one, called Tiger, would be our new kitty - despite our intentions to adopt an older, possibly plumper male cat when we arrived.

A few days later Leslye went to pick her up and bring her home. She had been fixed and probably was a little out of sorts, but she endured the ride across town fairly well, I was told. From there things went a little south: she jumped from the cat carrier placed on our bed and scrambled underneath the heater. Neither of us would have thought that a cat could fit in that space, but she somehow wedged herself into the dusty compartment and was not coming out. Not an auspicious beginning.

She stayed there the first night, refusing our entreaties of milk and food. She had a gravel-voiced response to any attempt to move her. In the morning, Leslye worried that she wouldn’t come out. “Of course she’ll come out,” I said. And then, after Leslye left for work, I reached into the compartment and brought the cat out, much to her dismay.

She was very dirty from her overnight stay. And scared. So I put her back in the cat carrier while I grabbed a damp towel and some cat treats. I wiped her off a bit and she ate some of the treats, still wild-eyed. Then, when I held open the lid to the cat carrier, she jumped out and promptly ran under the bed - I had boarded up the heater.

For the better part of two weeks she lived under the bed, coming out late at night to eat and (thankfully) to use the litter box. She was scared, sure, but she had manners. Our other cat, The Tuna, was little help. Curious about the interloper, she gave her little or no space when she ventured out from under the bed. There was hissing.

Still, she seemed to like human laps. The instant she could, she’d hop on ours and sit. Sometimes she’d purr. But when she’d had enough, a quick retreat to her lair often was preceeded by that gravely meow and a harmless swipe of her paw.

Did I mention the paws? They’re huge. She has all five toes down on the end of her paw, making them look more like catcher’s mitts (later on, we agreed that “Mitt” might have been a good name for her). When walking around the house, her paws make a bit of noise (pad-pad-pad).

Tiger didn’t seem like the name we wanted to keep, though, so we cast around for others. I had started calling her Tiger Lily, which morphed into The Lill. She’s not exactly best friends with her adopted sister, but in the year we’ve had her she has proven to be a loving, if occasionally grouchy, kitty. Although she might get a little grouchier once she realizes that the impending arrival of Baby 1.0 might mean less lap time.

(No horses were harmed in this photograph. Happy New Year’s!)

We don’t close until Sept. 8, so it’s not ours yet, but we’re already making plans and accepting Home Depot gift cards (not that the house needs much work - it’s in really solid shape and was well-cared for by its owner). And, of course, the task of actually moving from our condo. We’ll be spending lots of time on the screened-in side porch:

Perhaps our relatively smooth experience is an indication that the housing market may not be completely insane, but around D.C. that’s doubtful. And we still need it to remain insane until we sell our condo! More house pictures at Flickr.

Those are the same rooms where an unruly bunch of Pitt freshmen - our school didn’t have dormitory space for us - moved around this time in 1988. Brings back fond memories, probably even for Chris.

Today is Leslye’s birthday. Happy Birthday!

Total Volume of Music On My Computer: A paltry 5.7 GB (I tend to stick with the same ones)

The Last CD I Bought: All, Allroy for Prez (had the cassette but needed the CD)

Song Playing Right Now: Bob Mould - Deep Karma Canyon

Five Songs I Listen To A Lot:
Foo Fighters - Live-In Skin
Hole - Malibu
Vizqueen - Omaha
Husker Du - Celebrated Summer
Gang Starr - Manifest

Just another one of those days that make California look so, well, effortless.

“Excuse me,” the woman said to the Indian man, “we’re looking to eat Indian food tonight and we’re wondering which of those two restaurants you’d recommend.” (Because, you know, all Indians have a constantly-updated ranking system.)

The man paused then broke into a wide smile. “Indian food, it’s all the same! It doesn’t matter which one you choose!”

I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, but he seemed earnest enough, so I joined in. “If you want something similar but slightly different, the Afghan Grill is around the corner.”

“Yes, that’s very good,” the Indian man agreed. “But the Indian restaurants - they’re the same.”

I’m not sure we convinced the couple, who seemed a little surprised by the man’s reaction. Of course, both of us ended up heading to Chipotle, so perhaps our advice wasn’t to be taken anyway.

Blame the 2000 Republican National Convention, which I covered for Congressional Quarterly. Getting a credential to the event itself didn’t involve paying anybody, but if you’re covering particular delegations or politicians, it sometimes helps to hang out with those delegations at their (semi) private functions. Back then, I was covering Florida races for CQ, so I asked the state party if I could attend some of the breakfasts and other soirees.

The reply? Sure, just pay us $250 first and we’ll “credential” you. So I plunked down my personal credit card (not having a corporate card or anything) and paid, thinking that this would be an administrative thing, not an actual donation. I should have known better - it’s money coming into the party, so it’s a contribution. Other delegations didn’t charge reporters for the privilege of joining them, but I did feel free to have a soda or snack in the state party’s hospitality suite. After all, I paid for it.

I enjoy telling people from urban areas or other places where hunting deer is not a common activity that Pennsylvania accords the first day of the season a status roughly akin to the Fourth of July (the major difference is that real guns are used more often on this day). When I was very young, the schools tried to ignore the date and insist on attendance, but a few years with 20 percent attendance (or lower) convinced them to drop the issue. By high school, even the girls that didn’t hunt knew not to show up.

In my home state, there’s education, and then there’s the important stuff.

Fat Kitty, nee Mencken, nee Elvis, passed away Sunday night after a brief illness, with his family at his side. He was approximately 9 or 10 years old, cranky and very handsome. Fat Kitty enjoyed sleeping, receiving brushings, going for walks and, of course, eating. He was, to the very end, a good kitty who held no grudges, no matter how many times he was transported to the vet. He is survived and missed by an adoring sister, The Tuna, and two parents. In lieu of donations, please consider adopting an older cat from your local shelter.

Oh, it was stealthier this time: no detectable lumps, no infected areas. First his appetite waned, and then the vet found fluid in one lung, which was drained and didn’t seem to point to cancer. His appetite, helped by stimulants, came back, and Fat Kitty resumed most of his normal life, particularly his favored walks in the hallways of our building. But an ultrasound revealed “many, many” small tumors throughout his lungs, and surgery is not an option. Chemotherapy, while possible, would not be beneficial, the doctor says.

So we have a cat with a terminal illness, and a terrible choice to make.