It’s been nearly three and a half years since I lost my cat, Wilson. I still remember that day like it was yesterday—one of the most difficult of my life. What made it especially hard was how much of my life he shared with me. From a six-month-old kitten who joined me when I was in college in Ellensburg, to a 19-year-old senior who spent his final years retired in Palm Springs, Wilson wasn’t just a pet. He was family. He was a constant.

My friends know how much I love animals—mine, theirs, all of them. And so the question would come up often:

“Are you going to get another cat?”

No. Absolutely not.

It pained me to respond so emphatically, but I couldn’t imagine going through that kind of loss again. I loved having a pet in the home, but Wilson’s passing left a sort of silence that echoed for years. Sometimes I’d think I heard his motorcycle-like purring in the house. Other times I’d glance at his favorite corners and still expect to see him curled up on that Restoration Hardware blanket—one Jessica gave me for my birthday, which Wilson quickly claimed as his own.

Then, something unexpected happened.

A few days after one of those conversations, I flew home to Palm Springs after a long week in New York and San Francisco. Exhausted, I napped that Saturday afternoon. When I woke up, still groggy, I saw that Jessica had called several times. Before I could call her back, I read her text:

“There is a kitten in my car!”

Attached was a photo of a tiny, dirty kitten. When I called her, she told me the story. She was driving from Marina del Rey to Palm Springs and heard meowing. She thought it must be outside the car, but it persisted—even on the freeway. Eventually, near Riverside, she pulled over. Still skeptical, she stopped at a Jiffy Lube on Highway 111 and asked two workers for help. They looked doubtful, but agreed to take a look.

After some poking around, one of them suddenly shouted:

“Holy shit, there is a cat in there!”

This tiny little kitten had somehow survived a freeway ride inside the car engine. He was filthy, terrified, and alone.

Jessica and I talked about what to do. We weren’t sure which shelters were no-kill, and we didn’t want to take the risk. So we decided to bring him home to Palm Springs and take him to the vet. Regardless of what we’d ultimately decide, the first step was simple: make sure he was okay.

While Jessica continued driving, I went to the pet store. Based on his photo, I guessed he was no more than five weeks old—just about the same age Wilson was when I first saw him peek out from my friend Katie’s coat pocket. At that age, kittens often need to be bottle-fed with KMR (Kitten Milk Replacer). As I walked the aisles of Petco, I found myself gathering supplies I hadn’t needed in years: toys, kitten food, litter, soft blankets. Years ago, I donated all of Wilson’s things. Now I was reacquiring them.

But as I shopped, the emotions hit me hard.

Could I do this again? Would bringing this kitten home feel like I was trying to replace Wilson?

There are only a few artifacts of Wilson left in the house. His blanket. His last collar. The window ledge he used to perch on. I worried that bringing in a new kitten would overwrite those memories, or worse, fade them.

When Jessica arrived, I was still finishing a call. I turned around, and there he was: a trembling gray-and-white kitten in a retail box lined with a towel. His eyes were wide and terrified from the ordeal.

I kept wondering, What happened to his litter? Where was his mom? We brought him to the vet. While Jessica posted on community Facebook pages to check if he belonged to anyone, the vet and staff examined him. He weighed just one pound.

That night, we shared a photo on Instagram. A friend messaged: “The Cat Distribution System is working.” I had never heard of it before. Our plans for the weekend quickly changed. Instead of going out, we spent the evening on the couch with this tiny kitten curled into a ball, sleeping for hours on end. He clung to Jessica’s shoulder like she was the only safe place in the world. I joked that she was his mom now, but I wasn’t really joking. I’ve never seen a stray cat feel so at ease in a home on day one.

I went looking for a better blanket for him to sleep on—something softer than the towel. Then I saw it: Wilson’s blanket. The same one he slept on when he could no longer jump on the bed, the same one still folded in the corner of our bedroom. I paused. Took a deep breath. Picked it up and brought it to the kitten.

He rubbed his face into it, circled a few times, and fell asleep. It’s been two weeks since Jessica found the kitten in her car. And he’s still here.

Those first few days were emotionally difficult. But I’ve come to realize something: bringing another cat into our home doesn’t erase Wilson’s memory. This new kitten—his meows are different, his personality is gentler, and his habits are his own. He isn’t Wilson. And that’s okay.

We decided to keep him. We named him Kai.

The Cat Distribution System is a term for how cats seem to just… show up in people’s lives. They find you, not the other way around. It became a meme in late 2022, but it speaks to something deeper—that cats don’t just get adopted. They choose you.

In our case, I like to believe that Wilson is part of the committee.

We still miss you, Wilson. Say hello to Kai, and thanks for looking after me.