She was an orange tabby with just a bit of white on her face to look as if she’d dipped into something floury or pasty–and had not bothered to hide the evidence of her mischief.
The process was thus: she crept out of her cage and began exploring, slowly at first, with her nose and the her the rest of her body joining in. She sniffed along dark and light corners. I stayed in my own and watched, understanding that too much too soon would not for this cat or probably any cat.

She didn’t have a name yet. Yes, they had given her one at the shelter but I wasn’t buying it. I wanted to name her something simple like Mary or Susan. But then as I watched her move about, more sure of herself and her surroundings, it became clear to me her name should be Catalina, like one of the first Pontiacs I owned.

She was long like one; and moved smoothly as such.