I’m currently on the hunt for a second cat to keep Moose and me company. There’s an amazing organization here in Atlanta called FurKids that’s a network of no-kill shelters and foster homes. They take excellent care of every cat in their possession—young and old, healthy and sick—until he’s adopted, however long it takes. I went to their main shelter two weeks ago and spent 3 1/2 hours wandering from room to room, playing with all of the dozens and dozens of cats. (I spent over an hour in the kitten room alone, because time ceases to exist when you are sitting cross-legged on the floor, covered in purring kittens.)

It’s a decision I’m bound to agonize over for a little longer but I hope to bring someone home next weekend. I wish I could adopt all of them. Deep down I’m just a crazy cat lady trapped in a gay man’s body.

Meet Moose.

If you know me you’ve probably already met Moose, or at least heard me talk about him. He’s a purebred mitted blue point Ragdoll, which means nothing to me but sounds very fancy. All my previous pets have been mutts but my then-partner and I thought the breed’s relaxed and sociable disposition would be a good fit for our home. I picked him up on Valentine’s Day 2009 when he was a tiny white poof that fit in your hand. Now he’s a huge clumsy adult that sheds more fur in a day than should be scientifically possible. He likes to eat baby spinach, loves people’s feet, and occasionally runs into furniture. And he’s a big part of my life, so you’ll be seeing him around here again.