I invented a new drink today—cofftea. I steeped a bag of decaf chai, added about a half inch of bottled Starbucks caramel macchiato coffee, and a splash of low-sugar, sweet-cream-flavored creamer. It was perfect. Tea, as Ted Lasso said, tastes like hot brown water. Coffee is too strong and too caffeinated. Cofftea is just right.

I’m writing in the living room recliner, cofftea beside me, snow outside, listening to the heater combat the 19-degree weather while frozen rain pelts the house’s metal siding. Michael comes downstairs for home-office pleasantries, and our cat Phiona follows. She tangles herself in a long piece of tinsel-like gold streamer. She chews it while twisting about on the floor, then gets up and saunters slowly to a different part of the room. The tinsel is wrapped around her tail and trails after her, setting off a round of wild contortions. She leaps to the couch, paws churning on the leather, propels herself across the side table and under a chair, where she pauses before rushing to the middle of the room for another tussle with the tinsel. Michael takes the gold-tinsel streamer and he and Phiona pad back upstairs where she will likely settle down on her pillow at the window beside his desk.

When I was a kid, we had a no-pets-in-the-house rule, observed without exception for dogs, and occasionally broken for a supervised half-can of cat food or bowl of warm milk on the kitchen floor for kitty. There was also an exception for summertime jars filled with tadpoles in mud-puddle water, and the hamster who occupied a small aquarium in my bedroom. Ladybug was her name, and I’m sorry to say I grew tired of her biting and pooping and messing up her aquarium, and felt relieved when she died.

As an adult, I’ve dabbled in fish and rodents, decided I don’t have patience for a dog (or children, but it’s too late to return them), and have settled on cats as my pet of choice. Last spring we lost our 18-year-old cat, Phred, to a traffic accident, leaving us with geriatric Phrank, who hasn’t yet used up his nine lives. A few months later, in midsummer, we adopted a kitten—a birthday gift for our daughter Kyli, who named her Phiona. She is unceasingly gentle and relationally devoted (as much as possible for a cat). She keeps her claws retracted during play, and if she bites, she gives an apologetic lick. She is very chatty and will often respond with trills and meows when spoken to. Our family of four is under the spell of her charming face, maniacal antics, and friendly conversations.

I don’t mean to be judgy, but I think people who choose not to have pets still think happiness is a clean house and no vet bills. Yesterday Phiona chewed the cord for Kyli’s headphones in three pieces—two large and a small. A couple weeks ago one of Phiona’s eyes clouded over and we took her to Animal Clinic of Walla Walla to get it checked out. (Nothing was wrong.) The bigger she gets the more she eats and the more she potties, which means increasing cat food and litter costs. She scratches the couch and the mattresses, makes herself at home on the dining table, and wakes me every night between midnight and 1am for no apparent reason.

The petless people aren’t fools. I just think they have grinch-hearts that need to grow a few sizes (apologies to my petless parents and friends). I can only assume my own capacity to handle the inconvenience—and receive the love—of pets has room to grow, since I am not yet ready for the exuberance, mess, and affection of a dog. Maybe my heart is only mid-sized.

It’s no secret that introducing any living thing—plant or animal—into life carries a legal-pad list of complications. Plants need water and sun and god-knows-what-else, and they grow oddly out of proportion, drop leaves, forget to bloom, and either die under ideal conditions or thrive under heinous neglect. Yes, there are books on plant care, but there are also books on parenting, and we know how well that turns out. Oh, and my parents don’t go for indoor plants either—at least not living ones. I mean, who wants dirt in the house. Silk plants are a no-fuss, wash-in-the-bathtub-every-five-years type of happiness. Good luck finding any living foliage with that kind of low-maintenance guarantee.

Recently, I drove downtown via my usual route. Power poles and power lines compete with trees along the road. Why, I wondered, do we bring in a specialized truck to dig a hole and place a dead piece of wood in the ground to hold the lines, when strong, living trees are plentiful and perfectly located? Well, because trees are alive, and life is inconvenient. Trees grow taller and wider, swallow up wires, and attract wildlife. They’re unpredictable. And for power lines we need predictable.

Where am I on the continuum of power pole to dog-lover? How much life can I tolerate? I’d say a plant is less trouble than a cat, and a cat is less trouble than a spouse, and a spouse is (usually) less trouble than a child. Rules and stonewalling, tone of voice and expectations help corral my people into something I can perceive as manageable, but how much management is too much? How do I know when I’m opting for the less-alive version because it takes less maintenance, less money, less emotional involvement? As a wife, mother, and friend, do I optimize for dead traits, or living ones?

In 2023 I settled for a mid-size heart. Will 2024 be the year to grow another size? Don’t get any wild ideas—I’m not adopting a dog. But maybe I won’t assign chores when my kids get loud, and I’ll stop counting out the pieces of fruit each family member gets at breakfast. Maybe I’ll take bedtime noise and moldy lunchboxes in stride, and smile more when I get woken at night. I’m not going for superhuman here. Just a little more life, and a slightly bigger heart to pump blood so my extremities don’t go numb.