I want a cat. I have wanted a cat for about two years. I do not have a cat.

The gap between those sentences is where I keep finding things out about myself.

The reasons, which are all real

I travel for work sometimes. My flat gets sun for about forty minutes a day and it lands on a spot roughly the size of a laptop. I leave at nine and some days I am not back until nine. A cat would be alone for most of its life with me, and the internet tells me this is fine, and I don't fully believe the internet.

Each of these is true. Together they've held for two years, which is a long time for an argument that takes ten seconds to make.

The reason underneath

Here's the thing I noticed only recently: I don't actually research this. I have never visited a shelter. I've never asked a friend with a cat what it costs a month. For something I supposedly want, my information-gathering has been essentially zero.

That's not what wanting looks like. That's what enjoying the idea of looks like. The cat is doing a job for me as a thought — a small signal that I'm someone whose life has room in it. Actually getting one would end the daydream and start a responsibility.

I'm not sure I like what that says.

Where it stands

There's a tortoiseshell who sits on the compound wall near the gate most evenings. She has never once let me within three feet. I've started looking for her on the walk back, which I think is the most honest version of this I've managed so far: no commitment, no cat, just a small daily hope that something will be sitting on a wall.

One day I'll either go to the shelter or admit I'm not going to. Both would be progress.