A year ago, I adopted a cat. Unfortunately, this is not an adoption story. This is a story of rehoming.

A lot of people adopted pets during the pandemic, though I am not so sure quarantine made me do it or if it confounded with a unique set of circumstances. I had just returned from a month-long, isolating sojourn; my beloved pet of 14 years passed away; and an ex reached out only to reinforce they did not want me. I turned down a cross-country move and decided I should settle into my life and space more.

I joined a waitlist to foster a pet. The previous fall, I contemplated adopting a dog I found on Facebook. I promised myself I would reconsider after a weekend trip and promptly forgot about him save a haiku I penned on a Puerto Rico beach:

A foster puppy
Almost adopted to show
I could settle down.

In quarantine’s second week, I joined a foster pet waitlist. I passed on an ovulating dachshund and a kitten with ringworm. My friend found “Jack Sparrow” outside the foster agency—a one-eyed, 10-month-old kitten in need of permanent homing. A former rescue, Jackson—as I came to call him—had failed to integrate with his current owner’s other cats. Perhaps I could be his savior—and would he be mine? Did I need a savior?

A week later, my friend and I drove across the city to meet Jackson. I remember meeting him on the screened-in porch and thinking how gorgeous he was—a short-haired tabby perpetually winking at you—and also recognizing a dissonance in perceiving him and wanting him. His owner asked if I wanted to take him home that day. I considered saying I wanted to think on it; I also knew I wouldn’t drive across the city again. I figured it would just work out; I would take him home and he would grow on me. It reminded me of purchasing a hamster or goldfish when I was a kid.

At home in my apartment, I removed my prized knickknacks from Jackson’s swatting and Googled how long do cats live. Fifteen to 20 years. I would be near 50 if Jackson lived his fullest. Who would I be at 48? Where would I be? What had I done?

I made a social media announcement shortly after. I debated posting, but this was my new companion. A friend, unsolicited, reached out to mention her cat allergy. She suggested she could no longer visit me. “But he is so cute!” she added unhelpfully.

I thought of my brother who is allergic. I remembered my grandmother who was allergic. My friend who came with me to get Jackson was also allergic. An ex who I once pictured a life with had been allergic; she hated her roommate’s cat. What if my future spouse was allergic? Would I rehome Jackson, or would I end things with them?

My anxiety grew in wondrous ways. I ordered new toys and an automatic feeder. I snapped hundreds of photos. I cradled him (though he hated this). I fretted over lost weekend trips, though I had nowhere to go in a pandemic. I wondered if I would never get a bird – or did I have to wait until I was 48? Why was I already waiting for my cat to die? I pondered these things seated on my faux velvet sofa now matted in fur, on walks where I could not worry about entertaining Jackson, and on my toilet, my bathroom now sprayed in litter. Jackson and I also fought an increasingly hopeless battle for Jackson not to claw my furniture or jump on my kitchen counters.

On our third night together, I laid on the floor and dangled his peacock feather toy above his head. He stared back, lovely and cuddly, yet I felt hollow like sitting across from someone on a third date who I knew I should like, but felt no urge – or was it that I blocked my feelings for him? I failed to see this critter in my future. I thought of the cockatoo I could not have. I thought of the life partner I would have to choose between and this cat. I thought of impromptu trips to Bermuda or Bali and delusion that I could not find a cat sitter. All the commitmentphobia jokes of the last five years threatened to be true.

I ordered a larger cat tower and a cat window seat and a Dust Devil for all the fur. I read about training and maturity. I read about what people think about men with cats. I took Buzzfeed quizzes on if I should get a cat (ignoring the fact that I already had a cat). I shared him once again in my Instagram stories. I introduced him on a Zoom date that nose-dived into my own wonderings about what had I done.

I expressed my trepidation to friends and my parents. I asserted my cat would grow on me. I set a deadline of three months. If I still did not feel attached by then, then I would rehome him. Friends shared their own struggles with pets. Two friends confessed rehoming pets that were not right fits.

At some point – possibly while he stared at me from across the bathroom while I did my business or as he stretched across my bed at night, hours before he would terrorize me pre-dawn to feed him – I realized this cat would not break up with me. I negotiated with myself what Jackson deserved – from me or any owner — and my long-term happiness.

A few months before, I made a pivotal realization I have never broken up with anyone. In my handful of romances, I was always left on the receiving end of each breakup. For most, I didn’t actually care. That was partially, if not wholly, why things ended. Even in seventh grade, my girlfriend of five days ended things when I didn’t wait for her after algebra.

This revelation came after reading Demi Moore’s memoir, which is not my typical literary foray, but my book club chose it. At one point, Moore (do I call her Demi?) offered some insights on her relationship with Ashton Kutcher. She suggested that Kutcher, unable to end things, acted out so that he effectively forced her to pull the lifeline. I pondered whether I was a Demi or an Ashton and realized, far more often, I was the Ashton.

I clung to my three-month deadline. I vacuumed up litter every day. I put reverse tape on my counters that Jackson ignored. I vented to a mentor. I realized I had to own my unhappiness. It was not Jackson’s fault. He deserved the best, but I was not the best. I needed to break up with him.

Friends balked. Some said wait longer. Some suggested he was indeed the proverbial savior who would cure my flightiness. My parents even offered to adopt him—but Jackson was my doing. I imagined being haunted by my quarter-life crisis mistake every time I visited my childhood home.

I listed Jackson on several adoption websites and promised myself that I would keep him if he was not successfully rehomed. I felt instant relief.

I debated how to frame my failure—because, yes, to me, this was entirely a failure. I adopted something with the intention of forever, got cold feet, and now my soul churned with humiliation and guilt created by my own shortsightedness and miscalculation. I tried to reconcile my experience with my principles (I hadn’t had him that long; I wasn’t giving him to a shelter; was I any better?).

I stopped sharing him on social media. Friends noticed his abrupt absence. “No, he’s still here,” I said—and then, without further prompt, divulged my crisis of commitment to him. This happened several times.

My confession has continued to the present. Months later, friends ask about my one-eyed nugget, and I share the lessons of my failure. There are ethical ways to rehome. Your happiness matters as much as your pet’s. Pets are the most innocent and helpless to humans’ shortcomings.

Ultimately, a nice couple adopted Jackson. She had grown up with cats, and together they owned another kitten who unexpectedly passed away in the fall. Together, the couple had the energy to dangle a fish toy for Jackson every hour. I gave them the entirety of his toy bin, his litter and feed, and everything else I collected in four short weeks (“What else am I going to do with it? I’m not getting another cat!”). I also bestowed what wisdom I had of his precociousness and asked thrice, “Do you really want him? You can think on it longer! Also, if it doesn’t work out, I will take him back; please do not hesitate to call.”

My nightmare was Jackson being perpetually rehomed. My dread almost came to a head in the fall when a friend sent me the profile of another one-eyed tabby kitten named “Captain Jack” (one-eyed cat owners are apparently not creative). I blanched that Jackson’s new owners had given him up without telling me. Closer inspection revealed this one-eyed tabby’s right eye was missing; Jackson’s had been his left. I breathed freer with less imperative to drive three hours to rescue Jackson – and indeed felt reminded that I made the right decision.