In the long and narrow halls of my house, hidden amongst the tall stacks of boxed books and incredibly plush furniture, she lives. She, who bounds recklessly along the tops of chairs and end tables; who finds an enemy to be destroyed out of anything from book bags to plastic bags to trash bags; who better suits 'little demon' than her given name: Molly.

Molly, as we call her, came to us among three other kittens (who are naughty in their own rights). Last year, a rough month after the passing of another cat, the halls held an undertone of emptiness. There was sad loneliness both from my family and our remaining cats. My father took action, sending my sisters, mother and I out to answer 'free kittens' ads put out online. Most had not been fruitful... except for one.

The woman had a couple cats, some being adventurous - and apparently promiscuous - and siring clusters of fuzzy spawn. Leading us to her stuffy living room, there on a muted earth-toned couch were the kittens. They were roughly six weeks old, she said; their soft little bodies fit neatly in two hands. Moving in the large carriers we had brought in anticipation, we took four of them to the vet for a clean bill of health before bringing them home.

It took us weeks to give them proper names, as rarely do young creatures both sentient and sapient have defined personalities fresh out of the womb. The other kittens were skittish and reserved, as most small animals in a new place are. Molly was different.

Molly, with her inky black fur and a tiny, singular patch of white fur on her belly, was born to make mischief. Even at her smallest, one could see the cogs of evil working behind those wide golden eyes of hers. She was bold and brash, going as far as to arch instantly like a Halloween cat the moment she met one of the older and much larger cats in the house. She took challenge with anyone, regardless of size, slapping and biting full-grown cats - as well as hands, if she felt particularly terrible.

Though not malevolent, Molly was a creature hellbent on playful destruction. No person, pet nor household object was spared. From cat toys to my tennis shoes, drawstrings to packing peanuts, toilet paper to keychains and even books, bags and box tops; she held a thoroughness in each rascality she did.

Even these days, as she reaches a year old, Molly finds time to slap, claw and bite her fellow cats and even my family. She secures her position as mischief making royalty each day, careful not to waste any opportunity. But sometimes, when not eating odds and ends while aspiring to die of intestinal blockage, or destroying cat toy after cat toy, she finds a small window of opportunity to not be entirely evil.

And I see these rare moments when I walk by my sister's room; draped on the top of her desk chair, she sleeps sweetly.

My tennis shoes are safe for another day.