I should probably start by saying—I’m a 34-year-old man who had never owned so much as a goldfish.
My ex left.
My apartment went painfully quiet.
My therapist said,
“You should take care of something living.”
I assumed she meant a houseplant.
Instead, my coworker sent me a rescue post:
Two 10-week-old kitten sisters—Miso and Mochi—needed an emergency foster.
There was a health risk at the shelter, and the healthy kittens had to get out immediately.
“Just two weeks,” she said.
“You basically just need to keep them fed and alive.”
I agreed, thinking:
I’ll keep them in the bathroom.
I’ll feed them.
I will not get attached.
Day one:
Mochi escaped the bathroom, discovered my bedroom, and fell asleep inside my hoodie like it had always belonged to her.
Tiny body. Oversized paws. Absolutely convinced she owned the place.
Day three:
Miso figured out how to open cabinets.
That’s when I learned how smart cats actually are.
I woke up with both of them on my chest—
two warm, purring weights making it hard to breathe, but somehow impossible to move.
Day five:
I bought them an expensive cat bed with memory foam.
They ignored it completely
and decided my ribcage was the safest place in the world.
Here’s what nobody tells you about kittens—they’re deeply social in their own quiet way.
Independent, yes.
But once they choose you? They settle in like they were always meant to be there.
If I stop petting Miso for even a second,
she presses her forehead into my chin and makes the tiniest, offended sound.
Mochi brings me “gifts”—
hair ties, socks, once my credit card—
and drops them beside me like,
“I found this. It’s important.”
At the two-week mark, the rescue coordinator called.
“Good news! We found an adopter for Mochi.
Miso might take longer—she’s a bit shy.”
I looked at Miso,
asleep with her paw wrapped around her sister.
I looked at Mochi,
curled under my chin, purring in sync with my breathing.
“No,” I said. Immediately.
“No… to the adoption?”
“They’re not being separated. I’ll take both.”
There was a pause.
“Are you sure? You said you’d never had a pet before.”
I looked around my apartment.
Scratches on the couch.
Two kittens asleep on my chest.
A fancy cat bed collecting dust.
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Send me the paperwork.”
Later, my therapist asked how the “houseplant” was doing.
I sent her a photo of two cats asleep on my chest.
She replied:
“…that’s not a plant.”
No.
It’s not.
It’s better.
Foster fail anniversary: 4 months
Miso still won’t sleep unless she’s touching m
