I saw an Instagram story of a cat for adoption. the tabby cat in the photo looked gentle in that way that makes you think your life might soften a little if you just said yes (or nya). I decided to open myself up to it. At pickup the woman asked whether I had a pet permit. For a second I tried to remember what kind of permit that even is. I heard myself say yeah. She did not check anything. We chatted for a moment and then I walked out with the cat like that was the most normal thing in the world.

I carried it back to student housing. The place is a small two bedroom with an open kitchen in the middle. The hall light is a little too bright. There is a bed pushed to the wall, a couple of pillows that are too flat, a small black beanbag near the window. It is clean but it feels temporary. No bowls. No litter. No sign that an animal belongs here.

I put the cat down and it started to explore around the house carefully, rummaging through the corners. I worried it would dash through the door, so I tried to loop a leash. The knot kept turning into something that looked right and then slipping apart. The cat was not into it. It gave me this look like I was not getting the point, then decided to scratch my face. It stung in a way that felt both small and personal. I tried again. It wriggled free and disappeared under the bed. I could hear its breath in the dust and then it shot out, scratched me again, gone.

A person found a cat outside and called a deputy. They scanned a microchip and an old owner’s name came up. The deputy and that owner made their way to my door and started asking how the cat was doing and whether it was mine. I did not hear my answer. The thread just snapped and I was back in the apartment.

I stood there and did the math people do when they realize they have taken on something bigger than they admitted. I thought about returning the cat before any of it became real. Then I felt stubborn. I pulled the flat pillows together into a small nest near the bed. I thought about one of those little machines that dispense food because I did not want to mess this up. I walked into the kitchen and stared at the floor and realized I had avoided the most basic problem. Where is the litter box supposed to go. There was no obvious place. I tried to picture a plastic tray tucked beside the fridge or under the table and it made the whole room feel wrong. I could feel the time and the smell and the cleaning in front of me. It was too practical to ignore.

The cat sat in the doorway and flicked its tail like it was waiting for me to become serious. I thought about rules and whether pets were even allowed in housing. I thought about the woman not checking. I thought about saying yes because the picture looked soft. The apartment looked the same as before but I could feel the weight of the decision in the air.

And then I woke up and thought about the cat a little bit.