Party of five

The House of Bich is now a house of five.

We've been talking about adding a third feline to the brood for a while, or even adopting a dog. (More on that later.) So when we found out that the township was holding free adoptions last week, we decided to take a look and drove to the shelter on Saturday.

"No commitments, OK?" Rich said. "We're just looking, not walking out with one."

Yeah, well, you try to resist those plaintive meows and faces poking through the cage bars.

We walked into the kitty room at our local shelter and started checking out the merchandise. Every once in a while, a little paw poked through, reaching for human contact.

In one cage, however, was a gray and beige cat-mutt throwing himself at the cage door, spinning around in his tiny cell in such excitement that food was flying everywhere and his water bowl was nearly overturned. His name read "Donald." He came from a hoarding situation (his former owner still has 23 cats in his home; he gave up after letting two cats go), and was 4 years old.

Something kept me going to that cage, even after we looked at sweet orange tabbies, sleeping black kitties -- "No more black cats," Rich said -- rich gray ones, not-quite-ready-for-adoption kittens. He was clearly active and energetic, exactly what I wanted. We took him out of the cage a few times, and those big green eyes ... oy.

(We took a brief break to see the dogs, and I could tell immediately that Rich never wants to get one. It didn't help that they were either tiny yappers or dogs that were begging for saddles, but it was unnerving to him. We didn't stay long before heading back to the cat room.)

I went back to Donald.

Rich sighed. "If you want him, we'll get him," he said, resigned to his fate.

So we filled out the application, borrowed a cage and brought Donald home, where he became Ben (for Woodward and Bernstein's Post editor, Ben Bradlee. I need a fourth cat so I can name her Kitty Graham).

Woody, Bernie and Bennie: I think we're good on cats now.

At first, he hid behind the armchair in the second bedroom, though he purred when petted. He stayed there until Sunday, gradually making his way out, jumping out when a human came in the room so he could get some more love. He started to drink his water (not sure if he's eaten yet), check out the room.

Last night, I left the door open, and step by step (followed by some retreating, then heading back, rinse and repeat), he made it to the bottom of the stairs ... to be met by Bernie's unflinching death gaze.

Bernie hissed. Bernie growled. Bennie kept moving, fearless and awed by his new digs.

He walked into the office, where Woody was sleeping -- but Woody was so relaxed he didn't even notice that a new cat had walked under the futon he was lounging upon. Bernie had followed Bennie into the office, so soon we had three cats in one office, two not very happy.

Poor Woody and Bernie: shaking like leaves, growling, hissing, hiding. (Not well; Bernie decided to hind behind my aloe plant, peeking out from behind the leaves as if she were a jungle panther.) Woody vacillated between scared and content to sit next to me on the couch, alternately puffing up like a blowfish and kneading the couch.

I brought Woody into the bedroom to sleep with me, which he was totally happy to do, with no desire to leave. In the morning, I found Bernie downstairs, purring away and meowing happily. When Ben came back downstairs, she went back to unhappy ... but I'm pleased so far. As long as everyone has a hiding place, it'll turn out fine.

So we have three cats. Better bring your allergy meds.