Life has been good to you. You have a successful enough career, a healthy amount of vacation days, and making the rent is no longer stressful. You got married a few years ago and have fallen into a comfortable routine. Things are, easy.

But, maybe too easy. Maybe boring. Your routine seems to be too comfortable. You wake up early, start the coffee, catch the news, get dressed, and head into work where you’ve mastered the art of looking busy. You leave the office before 6pm, pick up food or prepare dinner if you’re feeling adventurous. You meet your wife on the couch and scarf down your food while resuming whatever show you’ve been bingeing. A few hours pass, and “I’m ready for bed.” You read, something, on your phone until you fall asleep with your phone on your chest.

Some people find comfort in routine, but not you. You’re not one of those people. You need to mix things up a little to keep things interesting. You like adventure. You like checking out the new restaurant before the first one star review hits. You like concerts, but attending them means searching for parking and staying out late. You search the web for new ways to entertain yourself. It might be time to start a new phase in life.

Make a baby? Whoa, slow down there. You still enjoy happy hours. Adopt a dog? That would require leaving the house at inconvenient times. Get a cat? Hmm.

You’ve never especially liked or disliked cats. You’ve watched some funny videos of cats. When you visit cat owners the cat just walks around and finds a place to nap. Cats don’t need to leave the house to relieve themselves. A cat could work.

You raise the topic to your wife who is a lot more excited about the idea than you. “I didn’t think you liked cats!” You wonder where this reputation came from and want so badly to disprove it that you insist, “I love cats, let’s look at some this weekend.” Now you’ve done it. You check your lease, one cat is allowed. Whether you regret it or not, you are already a cat owner. This bell will not be unrung.

Saturday rolls around and you suggest finding a place for a boozy brunch to distract your partner from your felinious proposal. “I don’t want to smell like booze at the animal shelter!” she replies.

You’re not aware now, but this moment would be a great time to take a farewell tour of your pre-cat life. Marvel at the surface of your hair-free sinks. Take one last snuggle in all your dander-less blankets. Run your fingers along your scar-free hands, arms, and legs. Open your front door without worrying about anything escaping. Place your coffee cup at the very edge of your coffee table and watch it just sit there. Fantasize about going away for a week without having to hand over your keys to a stranger.

You learn that there is a pet adoption fair just ten miles away. You and your wife agree to “just go feel it out” with no commitment.

You arrive and there is a man on a microphone announcing the number of pets that have been adopted today. “74 to go to reach our goal! Help these animals find the nice homes they deserve.” The guilt is setting in. Not only are you barely on board with adopting a cat, but if you don’t adopt every cat there, you are probably some kind of asshole.

You dive right in, walking down newly-constructed hallways of caged animals. You look at the cats, they look at you. Some of the cats look happy, some look sad, some look deranged.

You don’t feel an immediate connection with any cat. You look at your wife with raised eye eyebrows that try to communicate “Well, we tried, maybe we’re not cat people,” when she breaks eye contact and emits an “Aww” before inserting her index finger into a cage to pet a kitten named something like Rufus.

A shelter volunteer magically appears and now the cage is open. Your wife is hugging a kitten and motions that it is your turn to hold it. You accept the kitten into your arms, less confidently than you would a human baby.

The kitten makes eye contact with you and nuzzles into your armpit. The deal is done. This is your cat. You exchange looks with your wife and she says “I think we’ll take him.” “Well this is a girl,” the volunteer corrects. She smiles and tells you that adopting a second cat would give the kitten someone to play with and would be a free adoption. You laugh and say “one will do for today.” Nice try lady. She and your wife exchange a look and then head toward the paperwork station. They put your kitten in a box and give you a free leash and a sample of cat food. After handing over what seems to be an excessive amount of personal information, you are headed to your car with Rufus. Or, not Rufus.

You drive home to the sound of meows and scratches on the walls of the cardboard carrier. You and your wife exchange a look that asks “What have we done?” But there is no suggestion that you turn around and give the cat back.

You get home, take a quick look around to make sure your apartment is passably cat friendly, and you open the box. Not Rufus pokes her head out, reluctantly steps out of the box, and starts sniffing everything.

You wonder if your kitten will judge the cleanliness of your home. Your wife shows Not Rufus to her litter box which she sniffs before continuing her journey into the dustiest corners she can find. “We have treats!” your wife remembers, desperate to gain the affection of her new fur child.

You sit on the floor because your whole world is spinning and Not Rufus trots over and rubs her cheek on your leg. Not Rufus is happy and certainly better off than she was in that makeshift kitten prison. You reach out to pick up your new cat which may be your first time picking up any cat now that you think about it. Not Rufus grips your wrist for support and you feel little piercings that don’t hurt now but will later itch like hell, for some reason.

“Can we take her outside?” You ask. “No! She’ll run away, she’s not a dog.” your level-headed wife responds.

The next morning you smacked in the face by the smell of the litter box. Not Rufus has left you a full load as a thank you for saving her life. You audibly gag while scooping out clumps of cat droppings and your wife asks what’s wrong. You tell her that this litter box business is not going to be easy. A week later you will be able to get in an out of the litter box without gagging, but this is now, and this is some next-level stink.

Months pass and any household item that was able to be knocked from a high ledge to the hardwood floors during the middle of the night has now been hidden under the bed or on the top of your closet. Frequent “Hey, have you seen…?” questions are met with a “Yeah, I had to put that in your closet, Not Rufus woke me up with that last week.”

Not Rufus seems healthy, maybe too healthy. She found a way into the attic. Still, you wonder if, like a human adoptee, you should take her for an annual check up. Your wife shares your concern and you make an appointment for the vet. The vet only has really inconvenient times available so you and your wife both take the day off from work to meet a man about your too healthy cat.

The vet tells you everything is fine with Not Rufus. You agree that she seems fine. You ask questions that make the vet smile but his smile alleviates any stress you have. You talk a lot about stools.

You head to the grocery store and stop at the pet section for the first time in your life. You look at the cat faces on the bags for two minutes and then eventually choose the one that looks most like Not Rufus. The checkout girl rings you up and says “I never feed my cat this stuff, it’s basically kitty junk food.” You’re a little offended, but new at this and willing to learn. “What food do YOU buy?” you ask. “I always look at the first ingredient to make sure it’s a protein…” she says, before continuing with way more information than you asked for. You appreciate the insight, but feel it is time to change grocery stores.

You find you enjoy spending time alone with Not Rufus. She likes all the same TV shows and music you do. When you need to practice a presentation for work, she closes her eyes and listens intently. When a fly enters the house, she will not rest until every last one of its legs stops twitching. Not Rufus is also an amazing alarm clock, though you wonder how to shut her off on weekends.

One day you’re out running errands and spy a Petco. You have never been inside a Petco and you feel that Not Rufus deserves some new toys. You take a lap around the store. Everyone seems concerned that you’re there. Every employee has a weird stain on their shirt. Everything smells like fishy ass. You leave the store without any new toys for Not Rufus.

It’s springtime and one of your best friends is getting married out of town. You scour the web searching for the perfect cat sitter. You eventually choose one and she tops by to meet Not Rufus and pick up the keys. She seems very comfortable plopping down on your floor and playing with your cat. She will do.

You’re at the wedding reception and the open bar is ending soon. You look around to see if it’s an appropriate time to head back to the hotel. Just then, your phone vibrates with a message from the cat sitter accompanied by a photo of a wide-eyed Not Rufus hunting a laser dot. “I wish we could go home early,” your wife says. You agree.

Outside, waiting for a tram back to the hotel, you spy an old friend from high school. You catch up on each others’ lives and joke about getting older and more boring. You introduce your wives and ask each other about kids. “Not yet,” you both say. “We want to travel a little more before we head down that road.” he says. “I hear that.” you say.

Your tram pulls up and you wish your friend and his wife well. “Great seeing you again,” you say “I’ll find you on Facebook,” he responds. You pull out your phone while waiting for people to board. You see Not Rufus and the laser pointer. She will be even more excited to see you again.

As the tram is pulling away, you pull down a window and yell to your old schoolmate “Hey, you guys should get a cat.”