I’ve had Potato for one full day now, and this is how it’s going.

First, he punctured my finger when he fought me for my meatball sub. He successfully got some meatball. Second, he took a wet, fragrant dump on my bathroom rug right in front of the litter box. Third, he tossed his cookies twice this morning, once on the hardwood floor because he’s a considerate gentleman, and once on my bed while I was sitting on it because he’s a cat. Fourth, I really like having him around.

Potato is awfully cute. He doesn’t meow, he just squeaks really quietly. He knows what the cat food tins are because he loses his mind when I pull one out. I think he’s bored. At the moment, though, he doesn’t seem to want to play. Since last night, he’s been hiding under the bed, and he didn’t come near breakfast.

And here’s where it gets tough. Potato is less than a year old, so the fact that he’s acting like Newcastle did when he started into his late teens has me concerned. The bliss of yesterday has become anxiety, and I’m performing life checks on this kitten. I can’t lose another cat. I’ll never recover.

Potato was from the streets, and Nicole found him licking a Reese’s wrapper. Who knows what kind of garbage he was eating? He surely couldn’t have been sleeping well either. Plus, he got a decent chunk of my meatball. His stomach is probably upset. He’s probably exhausted.

This morning, he came out, said hello to me, fought me for my cinnamon roll, ate a lot of his own food, then went back under the bed. A couple of hours later, he came back out and draped himself over my knee for a while.

So there’s nothing to be worried about. Only I am. Newcastle spent most of the six weeks we spent together in this apartment hiding under the bed. I knew time was running about long before the vet gave me his last diagnosis. I was living in a constant state of stress, wondering when it was time to call the doctor. I’ve only known Potato for forty-two hours, and I’m not ready for him to go.

On one hand, Potato has brought life to my apartment again. Petting an animal feels so good. Taking care of someone is life-affirming.

On the other hand, I don’t want to replace Newcastle with a newer model. And I don’t mean because Potato looks exactly like Newk when he was that age. He was my best friend. I’m not ready to move on. I don’t want a rebound cat.

On the third hand, constant stress is returning as Potato is sleeping off his hard life. I don’t want another cat under my protection to die. I can’t handle it. I know that he’s fine, but I’m worrying.

We’re taking him to the vet this evening, so we can see if there’s anything to worry about. I’m expecting a clean bill of health. I’m hoping to have a decision by then.

I know a lot of my friends are rooting for me to keep Potato. It looked like a slam dunk. This little guy charmed me, and I am really enjoying hanging out with him. It seems to be a great fit. But I’m scared. I did not enjoy deciding several times a day for six weeks whether or not to arrange Newcastle’s death with the vet. PTSD can develop when you endure a slow trauma, and I think I have it. Potato may not be the best thing for me right now.

On the other hand, Potato may be the best thing for me.

Decisions, decisions.