Let’s get this out of the way: the name Potato was not working for me. It’s the way it feels when I say it, I can’t get more specific than that. I’d never really said it aloud—when I talk to him, I call him buddy—so I tried it out on Nicole’s boyfriend when we took him to the vet. I didn’t like it. I tried it out on the vet, but I didn’t like it. I wasn’t going to change his name until I decided whether or not I was going to keep him. So now his name’s Oscar.

My original plan would have been to name him Shenanigan, but the more time I spent thinking about it, the less I liked it. Plus, there’s no really good nicknames. Nicole came over with a plan to ruin his life forever (she and I gave him a bath), and while we were stalling, she searched through biblical names and the most popular cat names of the world. I was deciding between Samson and Barnabas, but when she said Oscar, it was right. He looks like an Oscar. Plus, he was a trash cat, so he feels an affinity for Oscar the Grouch.

I never reported back with Tuesday’s vet visit, where we learned some interesting things. First, he is definitely a he. Second, he’s in great health, with his heart, lungs, and teeth strong, and he tested negative for heartworms and feline leukemia and HIV. Third, his fur was healthy as well, and he had no fleas or ticks. Fourth, he was incredibly patient for the vet. Unfortunately, his coat and his socialization means that he was most likely thrown out a few weeks ago. He’s so freaking charming. How could someone do that?

I was doing a lot of thinking about purpose. My purpose is to write and draw. It’s also to take care of someone. I took care of Magik, Andrew, and Newcastle (and, to a certain extent, Kate) while I was married. I took care of Henry and Newcastle (and to a certain extent, Nicole), the first five years I lived in DC. I took care of Newcastle when we had our own place. Without Newcastle, I had no one. Suddenly, I have to feed someone in the morning. I have to massage someone. I have to clean someone’s skanky litter box. I have to get someone’s claws off of my ottoman. And I really like it.

I just don’t want to disrespect Newcastle, for whom I have organized a shrine and procured a duplicate. I’ve noticed lately that his loss doesn’t hurt as much, and I feel like I’ve betrayed him. He was such a rock through my tumultuous late-twenties, thirties, and forties that I want to feel like I used to feel for the rest of my life. And I whatever I did, I was not getting a replacement cat.

And yet.

I needed a cat. Since high school and Kokoa, aka the Grim Reaper for all birds and lizards that dared enter his territory, I just feel close to cats. Can you be a crazy cat person if you only have one cat, but he’s your entire life?

Oscar is awful cute. He’s sweet and good-natured and extremely social. Part of the reason I’d been balking at getting another one is because: What were the odds that I’d find a cat like that? What were the odds I’d find a cat who looks at me like Newcastle did? He’s the right cat for me. But he came at the wrong time.

I’m still on mourning for my best friend, and honestly, I was hoping to save my money for a vacation. But odds are, when it is the right time, I’ll only find the wrong cat. Over the past four days, Oscar has proven himself. He follows me around my tiny apartment, but he won’t go into the bathroom if I’m in there. I afford him the same courtesy. He likes to lay on me, which has been seriously digging into my art time. He just wants to be near me. That’s when I remembered that I shouldn’t live without this.

So he’s my problem now.

But I am not ready for him to call me Dad.